


The Oxford Ripper -version one

by asparagusmama, BabyKlingon



Category: Lewis - Fandom, the Casson Family - Hilary Mckay
Genre: Abuse, Crime Plot, Deaths of loved fictional characters from childhood, Domestic Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyKlingon/pseuds/BabyKlingon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two versions of the same story. Two stories in one, like ‘A Day in the Life’ by the Beatles, one by McCartney, one by Lennon, fused together to make something brilliant. Not that I’m claiming this is brilliant. Ripper plot my daughter’s, Hathaway’s plot mine.</p><p>This is definitely an AU story. Not canon, not my Seasons AU. No, you need to slide a long way through the multiverse for this one.</p><p>Hathaway gets a boyfriend. It turns out he’s not a very nice one. Lewis is incandescent with jealously. Hobson is fed up with Lewis. Then the bodies of teenagers start piling up. The media move in. everyone is stressed. Why is there a victim every time Hathaway has a date? And does Hathaway think anyone in the office believes his lame excuses for his bruises?</p><p>Version one has the entire plot without the details of abuse, sex and gore. Sorry darlings. But it also has much more on the victims and their families, who my daughter may have stolen from various children’s fiction and relocated them in time and space to 21st Century Oxford. Oh, and aged by about 4-8 years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> The gloriously, wonderful Casson family were invented by the brilliant Hilary McKay. No Casson or hanger on were hurt in the making of this fanfic.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....

James Hathaway was putting his guitar in its case in the side room – well, vestry he supposed, if Methodist churches called them that – when Dave came to tell him someone wanted to speak to him.

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Liked your playing, he said. The rest of us were obviously invisible.” He smiled encouragingly. “He’s in uniform.”

“What?” James scowled.

Dave huffed and rolled his eyes. It sometimes really pissed him off, this fiction that James’ was straight. Did he not think anyone hadn’t noticed his sexuality and reason for leaving the seminary? He was probably scared, Dave supposed. Silly boy, never realising how exactly the older liberal Anglican band members were praying for their messed up younger Catholic brother.

“Bomb Disposal, based here you know. Go on, he’s waiting outside, in the car park.”

“What?”

“He wants to tell you how nicely you played guitar, maybe buy you a drink.”

“Er..?”

Dave grabbed James by the arm and propelled him through the church hall, where they’d just played a gig to raise funds for ‘Help for Heroes’, through the corridor and out the back – disabled access – door.

A broad, tall, well built black man in desert army fatigues uncurled himself from leaning on the wall and stood straight, almost to attention, as tall as James but he seemed taller with his military bearing and broad shoulders.

“Hi,” he said, his face splitting in a wide grin. “You were good.” He glanced at Dave, “You all were,” he said dismissively. Dave held up his hands in a ‘no worries’ gesture and went back inside. “So...”

“What?”

“Why are you scowling, you are far too pretty to do that. Your name is James. I am Ellis Calixte.” He spoke with a strong African accent of some kind – western or central. Not southern African, James could distinguish that.

Nervous, James fumbled for his cigarettes in his pocket, struggling with his guitar. Ellis took the guitar and lit his cigarette with a Zippo lighter.

“Er, thanks.”

“You were very good.”

“Um, thank you.”

“And you are very good looking.”

James narrowed his eyes. “I really don’t know what Dave has been saying...”

Ellis laughed loudly, shaking his shoulders as he did so. “Nothing, nothing at all. Takes one to know one, as they say. Can I buy you a drink? No strings, no promises. I just got back from Afghanistan two days ago; I ship back out in three months.”

James stared, unable to think what to say, what did you say to someone who dealt with roadside bombs, defused bombs, saved other peoples lives, on a daily basis? He nodded.

“Come on then,” he said, heading of down the slope of the car park to the road with an easy, loping gait.

James watched him, hugging his guitar.

Ellis stopped and turned. “Coming?”

“I’ll look after your guitar. I’ll drop it around tomorrow,” Dave said, suddenly behind James.

“Oh. Oh thanks. How will I get home?”

“Trains every 20 minutes, last one just after midnight, okay? After that they turn into pumpkins.”

“Oh very funny.”

“Why don’t you learn to chill, James? God doesn’t hate you, He loves all of us, including you, He made you what you are. You’re going for a drink, you met him at a church. He seems nice.”

“What did you tell him?”

Dave laughed nervously; he’d drawn the short straw. “That you were available.”

“That’s presumptive off you,” James slammed his guitar into Dave’s arms and stalked off down the slope to Ellis.

*

They went to a noisy pub opposite the church, full of shrieking overweight underdressed girls and noisy, skinny blokes in tracksuits and too many tattoos. Ellis pulled him into a corner and pushed him into a seat. Two fat girls eyes him up, but when Ellis returned with two pints one turned to the other and said,

“Oh, he’s a faggot.”

“Pity,” said the other and leered at him.

“Fuck off,” Ellis said.

“Go fuck yourself, soldier,” said the second girl dangerously.

“Or his bitch,” said the first, laughing drunkenly, dragging her friend away as she muttered under her breath a string of racial and homophobic words.

“Nice place.”

“Sorry. Friday night, nearly everywhere will be like this. My... friend has my car today or I’d have driven us out of town into one of the villages, but then...” Ellis shrugged.

“What?”

“You get comments. Snide, under breath middle class comments. At least stupid bitches like that are obvious.”

“Sorry. It’s not like that in Oxford. Racist, I mean.”

“Let’s go, then. We’ll get a train!” Ellis, James soon was to learn, could be very impulsive. He pulled James to his feet, leaving their drinks untouched.

On the train Ellis talked, about himself mostly. Growing up in Ghana. His family’s gold mines and cattle farm. Afghanistan. What he thought of England. What he thought of James – beautiful, like an angel, pale skin and pale hair and pale blue eyes. All exotic and alien to Ellis.

By the time they were in Oxford, James felt he knew everything there must be to know about Ellis’ thoughts and history whereas he’d said nothing. Ellis had quite explicitly turned him into an object and James had repeatedly been questioning himself why he was allowing this.

“I’m hungry,” Ellis said as they walked away from the train station. “Now, honey, I’d love to take you to a really posh restaurant, but here I am in fatigues and you in your gorgeous skin tight jeans –” his hand was suddenly on James’ bum “ - so we’re hardly dressed for the occasion!”

James pushed his hand away.

“Don’t tease!” Ellis snapped, and slapped James’ bum before leaving his hand there. He laughed again. “Do you know my favourite English food?”

“What?”

“Indian,” Ellis laughed.

Despite his feeling uncomfortable, James smiled. “I like Indian food too. I know a really good restaurant on the High.” He was alarmed by the gut wrenching feeling in his stomach, being with Ellis, being touched by Ellis, felt like being on a fair ride, something that span you and threw you up in the air and had you screaming in terror and joy as you threw up.

*

The Turl had a huge, private wedding party and dinner out had been a spur of the moment decision for both of them so they went to Laura’s second favourite place, the Indian upstairs on the High, the one with the fish tanks with the blue angel fish rather than the usual flocked wall paper. The remains of the popadoms and relishes were being cleared away and the main order arriving as Laura Hobson watched a familiar long, lanky figure follow a soldier to a table behind them and then to the left, far out of Lewis’ line of vision. Curiously she watched the soldier pull out the chair and James sat, allowing himself to be tucked in under the table, the kind of gentlemanly courtesy that had been sadly lacking on her date, if this was a date and not two friends – work colleagues even – sharing a meal. She really couldn’t figure Lewis out, what he wanted. Sometimes she thought he liked her, sometimes she thought she saw a spark of interest in and desire for in Hathaway but mostly she thought he was still wallowing in an empty hole Val left and he believed no-one – woman or man – was ever going to fill. She certainly had noticed Hathaway’s interest in his boss. And now he was on a date. Well, well...

As soon as the waiters left them to enjoy the huge selection of curries – surely they had over ordered? – Laura couldn’t resist a little fun.

“A black ram is tupping your white ewe,” she quoted mischievously.

“What? Shakespeare? Don’t you bloody start Laura. Othello?”

“Quite right, although I should point out I mean tupping your young white ram. Or perhaps I mean sodding? Is that Elizabethan? Perhaps tupping will still do?”

“What?”

Laura indicated with her eyes, “Well, only wining and dining him.”

Who? thought Lewis. My...? “Hathaway? Here?” He turned round to look and saw James, blue T-shirt, black jacket, jeans, hair spike up, sitting opposite a black man in fatigues, real Army fatigues. James was giggling and had his head dipped, making him seem smaller, tipping his head and looking up through his eyelashes. He watched, horrified, as one army booted foot found its way to James’ inner thigh. James pushed the foot off him, blushing.

Just then a waiter arrived to take their order, which James seemed to leave to his companion – his date?!!! – to do and began to look around the room. Lewis hastily turned away. Laura was looking down into her food, obviously equally not wanting to be seen by James.

“He’s not looking anymore,” Laura hissed.

“He’s... he’s... he’s...”

“Gay? Don’t tell me you’ve not noticed, Robbie? You can’t be the great detective I thought you were if you couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, I asked him and he denied it. No, not actually deny, more not answer. I’ve seen him looking at men and never noticed him look at a woman, so... that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Oh? What then?”

“James is on a date. I can’t get my head around that.”

“He’s only your sergeant, Robbie.”

“Yeah,” said Lewis, sounding a bit lost and confused.

Their date – if it was a date, and Laura was never sure – went down hill from then on. Lewis barely spoke, giving monosyllabic answers if forced to, constantly looking back over his shoulder, scowl deepening every time James smiled or laughed, going purple when the soldier took James’ hand in his own, caressing James’ palm with his fingers.

Bored by Lewis, Laura began to idle away the night thinking how good Hathaway and his date would look together, in bed: James, pale, blond, long and lean under all that broad, powerful dark skinned muscle. Laura had dealt with far too many human bodies, naked on the slab, not to have a very good idea how anyone would look undressed, if she put her mind to it. She had never bothered with Lewis, although he was sweet, kind, lovely and lonely and her biological clock was ticking so loud she was surprised people couldn’t hear it. However, she found herself mentally undressing Innocent in idle moments. Why, when she hated the witch, she never knew. But she did dress well, and had a certain poise and sometimes Laura felt she would love to rip off one of those lovely dresses and rip away the confident, arrogant poise at the same time.

*

“Shit, James! I’ll miss my last train!” Ellis said, suddenly looking at his watch. He called a waiter over and asked for the bill and then asked for James number, but wouldn’t give his own.

“Army stuff, honey. Don’t worry your pretty head. I’ll ring you, first pass I get off the base, okay? I’ll make sure I don’t loan my car and I’ll can stay as long as we want, baby.” He picked up James hand again, kissing wrist and palm. Unseen by James, Lewis observed this, going rather purple again.

The bill arrived and Ellis paid, cash, and they left, James following Ellis out, still confused by what had happened. He didn’t do dates. He didn’t admit to himself he was gay. He was celibate, nice and safe and sinless, no messy emotional stuff and scary intimacy to deal with. If it had been Lewis...

Sigh.

If only it had been Lewis...

Outside, Ellis crossed the road, ignoring the crossing two metres away, as well as the buses. James ran after him.

“I go this way,” he said, pointing in the direction of Magdalen Bridge and St. Clements.

“You live in Cowley Road, maybe?”

“Iffley Road.”

“Not too far, sweetie. I would walk you home, but I must get that last train.”

“I’ll be fine,” James said, a smile in his voice.

They were standing in the shadows, the corner of St. Mary’s Passage, St. Mary the Virgin and the Radcliffe Camera looming over them in the dark.

“Well,” James said awkwardly, “thank you for a lovely meal. It was nice. You’d better...”

Ellis pushed James into the wall of the church and kissed him aggressively, pinning him to the wall, forcing James’ legs apart slightly, grinding his groin into James’, hands cupping James’ face.

James put his hands to Ellis’ shoulders and pushed slightly. Startled, he let out a strangled whimper of protest that turned into a moan as Ellis’ hot tongue found its way in his mouth and he gave up struggling and yielded to being possessed so aggressively. He moved his hands to Ellis’ hair, feeling the rough, harsh texture of his shorn hair.

When Ellis released him James stared, pupils dilated, mouth parted and slightly bruised. Ellis smiled.

"Baby, you want me so much. I wasn’t sure, you were playing so hard to get.”

“I’ve never...”

Ellis laughed again and then kissed him again, this time twisting fingers into James’ short hair and pulling him into the kiss. His other hand found it’s way around from groin to arse, fingers pushing through waistbands of jeans and boxers and down. Ellis moved his mouth down from James’ mouth to neck and began to bite and suck.

James pushed back against Ellis and gasped. “No! I...”

“Don’t tease, honey,” but Ellis removed his hands and released him. “God, you’ve got me so hard I have got to fuck you. Fuck the train. Let’s go back to yours and...”

“No! Not yet. It’s too soon. I...” What was he saying, James wondered.

“Don’t be such a fucking tease, bitch,” Ellis suddenly lost his temper and hit James.

James stared, nursing his cheek with his fist, horrified.

“Oh God, honey, I’m sorry. I get these moods, the quack calls it PTSD. I never meant to hurt you...” and he was kissing James cheek gently, the one he’d punched. “You’re so beautiful. Please say you’ll see me again. Please. I’ll slow down. You’re not a bad boy like most English queers, I can see that. Shit. Please. Forgive me. Next day off I’ll take you somewhere special. Tell me where you live?”

James couldn’t believe it, he heard himself give Ellis his address. Ellis ran off in the darkness, towards Radcliffe Square and presumably on to the train station. Feeling decidedly wobbly, he let his legs buckle and sink to the ground.

“Okay?” he heard a familiar voice. He looked up. It was Dr. Hobson.

“Yep. Yeah. Fine.” He stood up. He was aware of Hobson scrutinizing his face in the orange glare of the streetlight.

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, great, fine. See you Dr. Hobson,” and he headed back on to the High, turning towards home. It wasn’t until he got home he saw what Dr. Hobson had seen, a red cheek, swollen, purple left side of his lower lip and a huge love bite just under his jaw bone, too high to be hidden by a collar.

 

Two hours later Hathaway was awoke from a heavy sleep – he’d drunk far more than he’d eaten, as usual – by his work phone. A body. A young girl.

 

“I can’t say for definite Lewis,” Hobson was snapping at his boss when Hathaway arrived, “I’ll need the PM for that.” She turned and glared at him with that particularly nasty glare she’d stopped giving him since she and Lewis had begun to ‘date’. He tried to ignore her and squatted down next to the body. Oh God, she looked no more than 16.

“Who is she?” He stood up and wandered away, she was barely out of childhood.

“No ID. Young girl, as you can see. Uniform tracing the number of her parents – in her phone and going to tell them. Then we’ll know who she is.”

“Looks like she was on her way home from a music lesson – concert?” Hathaway said, picking up a violin case a little way from the body. He opened the lid. The name of a school stamped inside, but no name.

Lewis came up and stood behind him and looked at the violin. He sighed. “We’ll know in the morning, who she is, where she was going.” He turned to Hobson. “How long do you reckon she’s been lying here, alone, since...?”

“No more than two hours, certainly more than half an hour.”

“Very late for a girl to be out alone.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t, perhaps she was with a boyfriend, a date, which turned nasty, too naive to be able judge a nasty piece of work when she sees one,” she glared pointedly at Hathaway as she answered Lewis.

Lewis looked at James’ face and neck. “Perhaps,” he said sadly. “Go home James, there’s nothing we can do ‘til morning,” then he added quietly, in James’ ear, “Better make tomorrow one of your make up days, hide that love bite and bruise if you don’t want gossip.”

 

The days that followed were depressingly unproductive. No witnesses, little forensics, distraught parents, vicarious, vicious media interest – 17 years old girl, returning home from a youth orchestra, brutally raped and murdered – throat slit – in University Parks as she took a short cut home to Park Town. Lewis was angry, angry at a young life cut short, angry at the sensational reaction in the media, angry with Innocent for being on his back too much and not letting him get on with the job and James Hathaway got it all.

After three days he realised that Lewis was angry with him, personally. He didn’t know why, unless it was the love bite.

On the fourth day he snapped. “Sir, what is your problem with me? I’m getting more than a little fed up for being shouted at for the slightest thing. It’s not my fault we’re getting nowhere, is it? I’ve put hours into the bloody CCTV footage!”

Lewis looked startled, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that he was being particularly vicious and nasty to his sergeant. He sighed and got up and closed the office door and drew the blinds. He turned and looked at Hathaway watching him through narrowed eyes, puzzled and more than a little pissed off. And he had a right to be. Lewis had to admit to himself he’d probably been worse than Morse when he was In One Of His Moods or Off On One Of His Things (with a suspect, murderer or future victim) as he and Val titled the worse ones, when Lewis returned home after over twelve relentless hours of being belittled and patronized.

He stared at Hathaway.

He sighed and rubbed his face, then the back of his neck.

He coughed.

All the while Hathaway stared, anger melting into worry and concern.

“I saw you,” Lewis said eventually.

“Saw me what?”

“In the Indian. With that soldier. Laura and me, well, we were there too.”

“Saw me what?” Hathaway repeated.

Lewis stared angrily and snapped, “Saw you play footsie, saw him kiss you, repeatedly, saw him feed you. Hell! I saw you on a date. You don’t date, James, do you? Oh no, you don’t date and you’re not gay!”

“It’s none of your business, is it Sir, what I do on my time off. And I was celibate, and I never denied being gay, I just tried to let you know it wasn’t straight forward and simple. Life isn’t.”

“So you’re not bloody celibate anymore, you’re – um – out now, are you? Just so I know?”

“Do you want me transferred Sir, because if you do I’ll just quit!” James stood up, angry and scared. Don’t reject me, his eyes pleaded, but he wasn’t aware of that.

Lewis was. “Don’t be so bloody stupid. I’ve been worried for you James. You clutch your phone all day, every day, checking for texts. And don’t forget, you turned up with a bruised mouth and bruised cheek, not to mention the love bite.”

Hathaway sat down again, heavily, and sighed deeply. He hung his head, ashamed and blushing furiously.

“I’m concerned for you,” Lewis repeated.

“You don’t have to be Sir. He’s okay, charming, fun to be with, just has a few issues I think. He just got back from Afghanistan, Sir, with only half his team. He’s been diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder.”

“That is no excuse for belting your date across the mouth.”

“He never hit me in the mouth, that was...” Hathaway tailed off, anger evaporating, going pinker by the second.

Lewis was a private man, things like this didn’t come easy to him, but he did care deeply for James, and James didn’t seem to have anyone else about who did, so Lewis forced himself to say, “He’s a soldier and an African, James, so you just make sure he always wears a condom.” Now it was his turn to blush, furious with himself, because he’d meant to say ‘you both use’ but now, the way he’d said it implied something he thought about Hathaway’s preferences that may be wrong. He looked up. Hathaway was staring at him through narrowed eyes but he didn’t seem to be angry or embarrassed, more somewhat triumphant, although still blushing furiously.

“You needn’t worry about me Sir. Virgo intactus. Unless you count my childhood, which I don’t,” he spat out spitefully, before standing up and grabbing his jacket. “I’m going for a smoke.” He was so angry and embarrassed he left his phone.

Hating himself, Lewis picked up the phone and scrolled through the texts.

Ellis Calixte. African name. Didn’t like text speak, obviously, luckily for the prying Lewis.

‘Honey, you are gorgeous. As soon as I’m free I’ll be over to see you. You’re on a promise, beautiful boy.’

‘Can’t get you out of my head today. Honey curls and milk white skin. Going to have you baby, real soon.”

‘So bored and pissed off here. Can’t wait for time off. Can’t wait to see you. Can’t stop thinking of your long legs and tight arse. Gonna make you mine soon.”

Lewis put the phone down, understanding Hathaway’s sudden blushes. The phone bleeped and Lewis couldn’t stop himself, he picked up the phone again and read the new message.

“Got time off. Got car. Be over tonight. 7pm. Going to make you my bitch tonight. I’ll bring everything we need. Wear a nice suit, I promised you expensive. Where we’re going, baby, is very expensive.”

“Bitch?” mouthed Lewis, disgusted and was about to put the phone down when he heard the door. He looked up and saw Hathaway at the door, scowling.

Hathaway closed the door quietly and said dangerously, “What the fuck are you doing?” He didn’t even bother with a belated Sir.

Lewis tossed the phone at Hathaway, text still on the screen. “I don’t care if it is some kind of gay slang or street slang, you don’t call your lover a bitch. Get some self respect, James, because you may well have gorgeous blond hair and lovely skin, and you certainly do have long legs and a cute bum, but you are so much more. You’re clever, witty, good company, easy to be with, a bloody good detective, a bloody good cook and a bloody talented guitar player. Does he know that? Does he even care? Or is he looking for some easy R&R before he’s back defusing bombs?”

Hathaway was about to shout back, as Lewis made him feel like some teenage kid – his teenage kid! - but then he ran Lewis’ speech back in his mind. His boss noticed his bum? Lewis fancied him? Robbie was jealous? Slyly, James replied,

“Maybe so, but with such a dangerous job, maybe he deserves it, don’t you think? And what do you know, thinking he’s just some ignorant squaddie? He’s a commissioned officer, Winchester and Sandhurst, his father owns huge farms back in Ghana. And if I know that after one date, what do you think he knows about me? He met me at a gig, and he loves my guitar playing. You think I’m so naive I can’t take care off myself, well you’re wrong Sir. I’m not a teenager, I’m over 30.”

“I know that, James. I’m sorry, but the bruise...?”

“Was an accident. Now Sir, it’s gone five and if you don’t mind...”

“He called you a bitch, which is disgusting James.”

James glanced at his new text. “Said he was going to make me his, actually Sir. Don’t pretend you don’t know full well what that means. Now, if you don’t have some homophobic objection to working with me now you know that about me, may I either go early or be allowed to get back to work?”

“Go, then James. Just go. And don’t you dare call me homophobic, again, alright? I care about you and I don’t want you hurt, alright?” Lewis practically growled as Hathaway flounced out of the office.


	2. Chapter 2

James stared at himself in the mirror hardly believing it was he. Was this overkill? Over the top? He looked so gay!

James had showered and put on expensive cologne and gelled up his hair into spikes, rather than his usual neat, respectable choir boy look, but then he wasn’t (subconsciously) dressing for Lewis tonight, he was fully consciously dressing for Ellis, dressing for his first real gay date with a man who most definitely considered himself the butch one. It was probably old fashioned and sexist, but then he wasn’t English but African and James had quite happily allowed Ellis to treat him in a way that if he’d witnessed such treatment of a woman his feminist instincts would be riled. He couldn’t understand it, but at the same time Ellis’ treatment of him gave him a vicariously, terrifying thrill he felt deep inside, churning him up and turning him on.

James had put on his single breasted black Paul Smith with a dark pink silk lining, far too good for work and a mad treat he couldn’t afford on a depressed shopping spree in London. Ditto the Jimmy Choos. He’d put on a pale pink silk shirt with the palest of pink Mother of Pearl cuff links and then a silk tie that matched the silk lining. Underneath, he’d put on dark pink Calvin Klein boxers and socks to match.

That was all fine, but over his usual discreet base make-up of foundation, blusher and dark brown mascara he’d put on glittery pink eye-shadow, clear glitter mascara, shimmer pink lip gloss and sprayed his gelled hair with pink glitter hair spray.

He stared and stared, he looked good in a very loud, out way, but he was so nervous. He bit at his thumbnail and ridiculously, suddenly, wished he didn’t bite his nails so much, practically to the bone, because a nice pink nail polish would complete the look so much more fully.

He didn’t really look like him. Would he look different in the morning, after...?

Did he want it?

Again the butterflies danced excitedly in the pit of his stomach.

Yes. This was he, he’d have wanted it like this if he hadn’t experienced any of the... Stop! Not a good day to over analyse everything.

The doorbell rang to save any further soul searching.

Ellis grinned widely and made a very definitely sound of approval, clicking his tongue, moving his hands in a very fluid gesture, “Ow ow! What a beautiful, beautiful boy! I am such a lucky guy to have you on my arm tonight. Can I come in?”

James was frozen on the doorstep. He nodded and stepped back. Ellis was in uniform, not fatigues, his real uniform, decorated with his captain’s stripes, regimental livery and two medals. He took his hat off and tucked it under his arm, body language shifting from African to an English officer in a very swift moment. It confused and unnerved James, just as the strong African accent that would slide to crisp public school tones at a moment’s notice. James had first became aware of it when Ellis had ordered for them in the Indian restaurant.

Ellis caught James regarding the uniform with suspicion. He was also half an hour early.

“Sorry for being early baby, but by the time we got back from London I had no time to go home and change into a suit, so I drove straight here. What do you think, am I still presentable enough for Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons?” Of course, Ellis’ French accent was impeccable.

James stared, mouth almost open, in shock. “Don’t you need a small mortgage to order there?” he asked evenly, once he’d composed himself.

Ellis laughed, “I told you I was taking you somewhere expensive, angel.”

A new one, thought James. I’m no angel, or I won’t be. He seriously considered for a second for just asking for the money Ellis was about to spend and letting him fuck him there and then, considering the very red nature of his bank balance. In fact, he was wearing most of his overdraft.

“Um. Shall we go, or is it too early? Would you like a coffee or something?” James asked, stumbling over his words.

Ellis sat down on his sofa, spreading his arms out over the back and looking around. “Nice place, honey. Tasteful. And there’s your beautiful guitar. Lots of books, but then, I’d expect that. This is Oxford. Love the Alexander the Great replica. Seen the real one in the Ashmolean.” He looked at James, standing still by the door, biting his thumbnail. “Coffee would be great, as long as it’s real. My father has coffee farms, too, you know.”

James forced back something very uncomfortable rising in his mind. Being a weekly attendee at church, Africa of course was something one associated with Trade Justice and sponsoring children, with poverty and exploitation. Everyone conveniently making fair trade a black/white issue, whereas, of course, nothing is simple. Here was an African, whose father’s land was worked on by Africans while he sold to the west. How many people could be fed for the price of a meal of Le Manoir, James didn’t want to wonder, because he didn’t want to feel guilty.

The poor will always be with you, he deliberately used out of context. But then, he didn’t want to get onto any more verses out of context or he would lose all his nerve, and he did want this. He wanted to have sex with Ellis. He made him feel exhilarated.

While James struggled with his Christian conscience he made then coffee. Fortunately, James was fond of coffee, and although he’d drink instant at work, at Lewis’, in the homes of witnesses and suspects, he wouldn’t have it at home.

He carried over the coffee pot, mugs, sugar and milk to the coffee table and sat down next to Ellis. Obviously, he would be expected to pour. But not yet, as Ellis kissed him, gently, and ran one fingertip down his cheek, the one he’d hit the previous Friday.

“Don’t want to ruin your make-up honey. You sparkle like a fairy. I like that. And I like your suit. Paul Smith? Whatever you do, it pays well.”

“I couldn’t really afford it to tell the truth.”

“Good job, clever boy like you?”

“Um, yeah, sort of...”

“I’m sure you’re something clever at one of the colleges! Pour the coffee then honey?”

Somehow the subject got changed back to Ellis and what he’d been doing that day – receiving a commendation, attending a function – and James never did get to tell Ellis what he did.

*

The evening had been a strange experience, like falling through a time warp and yet bringing twenty first century British norms with you. Ellis had failed to mention he’d been given a medal at Buckingham Palace and he’d been on television, but he was recognized a couple of times while they ate. No-one seemed to bat an eye lid at the fact a decorated military officer’s date was male, yet only fifteen years before it had been illegal to be gay and in the army. And it was blindly obvious to everyone they were on a date, the way Ellis appeared to court him so chivalrously above the table – feeding him titbits from his plate, pouring his wine, kissing his hand, gazing into his eyes while below the table Ellis’ hand would occasionally wander to his thighs and groin, causing James to blush furiously and look down. Ellis loved the blushes immensely.

James drank most of the wine while Ellis ate most of James’ food. Ellis had his coffee black, James Irish. Ellis declined brandy while James had two. By the time they left James was a little unsteady on his feet. He over heard an elderly couple discuss whether he was a prostitute. Ordinarily this would have made him furious, but the amount he’d drunk, it was funny and they left with James in a state of uncontrollable giggles.

Ellis drove very fast round the single-track country lanes on the way back to Oxford, stopping just before Wheatley in a farm field gateway. He pulled out a tin from his pocket and began to build a spliff.

“Ellis!” James said sternly, disapproval strong in his voice.

Ellis looked at him, startled by the sudden authority and confidence in someone who up to now had been lovely, cute and submissive to the point of semi-permanent silence, and when not, softly spoken and sweet.

“You don’t approve honey?”

“I don’t know about approve or disapprove, but it’s against the law.”

Ellis scoffed, “What you going to do baby, arrest me?”

“I should,” James said, nodding, although that made him feel a little light headed, drunk as he was.

“Really honey, this was for you, to chill you out. You seen a bit uptight and well, forgive me baby, but frigid. I’m gonna have you tonight, honey, but I don’t want you tense and hurting. Don’t tell me this is something else you don’t do? I didn’t know England had anyone left so moral and uptight!” Ellis was on the dangerous edge of losing his temper.

“Put it away and we won’t talk about it again,” James said coldly, the effect ruined by his slightly unfocused gaze and slur.

“What you gonna do if I don’t, baby? Make a citizen’s arrest.”

“I don’t need to,” James said, reaching into inside his jacket. He produced his badge.

“Oh fuck!” Ellis threw the spliff and the tin out of the window into the bushes and then grabbed the badge and looked at it closely.

“Honey, you sure had me fooled. I would never have guessed you were a policeman. Almost anything but that. Wow!”

“You never asked.”

“Detective Sergeant,” Ellis read. “Hathaway. Nice name. I still out rank you.”

James laughed, “Yes you do,” adding huskily, “Sir.”

“You cheeky bitch!” Ellis said and pulled James to him by his hair and kissed him, hard, moving his other hand down to his thigh and then behind, pulling James on to his lap. He pulled apart for a second, “Do you have handcuffs in there?”

James tensed. “No,” he lied, his voice quiet and nervous again. He pulled away from Ellis and looked out of the window.

“Sorry honey. I promised I would go slow for you. Would you really arrest me?”

“If I was going to do that I’d have done it that first night, for assault.” James carried on looking out of the window at the black fields.

Ellis reached across and stroked James hair. “I’m sorry honey babe, I just seem to suddenly get so angry sometimes. Like this!” He flicked at his medal as James turned to look. “Phillip was nineteen! Nineteen! And so is Andy, stuck in hospital for who knows how long with no bloody legs! I miscalculated, I should have been the one... Oh fuck! Forget it!” he looked away. James reached out to his shoulder but Ellis shrugged and flinched.

Realising Ellis wouldn’t want a witness to his distress he got out of the car and pulled out his torch and found the tin and the spliff. He smoked a cigarette and by the time he finished Ellis joined him. James handed him the tin and spliff and said, “I want you to fuck me, just know I’m not very experienced and I’m feeling very nervous about it.”

“I can tell that honey. I just wanted you to relax and unwind, which is why I got this from a friend. Can I...?” He indicated the spliff and his lighter.

James shrugged, “I’m not going to arrest you. I might even try, if you say it will help me, because I’m a little afraid, to tell the truth.”

“Honey, I don’t know what you’ve been through to make you nervous, a beautiful boy like you, but I’ll look after you.” He passed James the spliff. He took it and drew and coughed.

By the time they got back in the car James was as high as a kite and even gigglier. He wondered what Lewis would make of him now, but he still couldn’t stop giggling. It was stupid to wait for Lewis, who was straight and currently angry with him. He dozed the rest of the way back.

*

James stumbled as he almost fell out of Ellis’ car. He’d been drinking steadily all evening, knocking back the incredibly expensive wine like there was no tomorrow. He couldn’t believe where he’d been taken. Ellis’ family must own serious amounts of land! Then there was the dope, he’d never smoked anything but cigarettes in his life. In fact, he’d never, ever broken the slightest law in his life before. Ellis was seriously leading him astray and yet, when he was with Ellis, he didn’t care. There was something about his presence that swamped his sense and drowned his senses.

Ellis was by his side in an instant, strong arm around his waist. “Hey honey, watch your step. Come on baby, give me your keys and I’ll unlock.”

James did so and looked up, the light on in the top flat, his elderly neighbour watching him from the window. He knew he was probably shocking her, her nice, well spoken Christian policeman neighbour coming home drunk in the arms of a solider. He blew her a kiss and giggled.

*

James lay, semi conscious, the sex on top of the alcohol and dope sending him fast to sleep. He was vaguely aware that Ellis was dressing and also sending texts on his phone.

Ellis knelt by his head and kissed each of his eyes and stroked his hair. “Hey, my sparkling bitch, doing okay?”

“Sleepy,” muttered James.

“Got to go. Picking mates up. We’re car sharing, okay? I’ll be in touch, honey.”

“Will you?”

“Of course I will, you’re my bitch now. Remember that, you’re mine honey boy.” He stroked James face and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Love you, babe, don’t forget that. Text you soon.”

James was too drowsy to respond as Ellis let himself out. He just passed out where he was, lying face down on the sofa, silk shirt pushed up and nothing else on except his socks.

An hour and a half later, when his phone rang he was too confused to remember it was in his jacket, dropped by the door. He blindly groped out to the coffee table and instead knocked his half full wine glass on to the floor. He moaned and fell asleep again.

Half an hour later the phone rang again. If he could see the display he would know that this time it said Lewis not Control. He again reached out, uncoordinated and clumsy and tipped over the coffee pot. It tumbled off the coffee table, smashing on top of the split red wine, coffee grounds and glass spreading across the carpet.

The third time the phone rang James didn’t even hear it.

 

Lewis scowled at his phone as he pressed end call. What was wrong with the boy? Why was he not answering?

He could be shagging, Lewis told himself, the scowl deepening. He walked back towards Hobson, shaking his head slightly. She was still by the body, an unhappy look on her face. It took a lot to knock Hobson’s composure. His too. This was one of them.

When he’d arrived Lewis had felt a cold despair seep over him, maybe fear even. What would the press say? How could he face her parents? Why?

“Definitively the same MO,” Hobson said, “and yes, I’d guess raped too, I’ll commit myself thus far this time.”

She was young, younger than last time. Fourteen, fifteen maybe, lying there, face down, head twisted at an awful angle, throat slit from ear to ear, dark, streaked hair, sprayed with a pink glitter hair spray, fanned out like a mermaid, plastic pink clips the shape of butterflies scattered above her head like so many flowers surrounding her like a pink, plastic halo. They were the kind of hair clip you would see on a smaller girl, an infant really. She had beaded bracelets of pink plastic beads on one wrist with a small but life size tattoo of a ladybird showing just above them. She wore a white tee shirt that Lewis was later to see had a pink sequined butterfly on the front, something she had designed and made herself. Her short, flounsy skirt was rucked up and her knickers missing. SOCO found them in the bushes, a pair of aged 9-10 little girl knickers with Hello Kitty on the front. Her flip-flops were kicked off, also customized with her own design. A creative, innocent little girl, life cut short, ended in terror.

And if he’d found Alice Dodson’s killer, she would be safe and alive and at home by now!

“Hell! Damn and hell!” let out Lewis with feeling when John showed him the found knickers.

Hobson looked up and grimaced sympathetically. That was when Lewis tried to phone Hathaway for the first time, having received a text telling him Hathaway wasn’t responding.

Now Hathaway was still not answering. He supposed he was busy with his boyfriend. Boyfriend! Hathaway!

John handed him a dark pink shoulder bag with customized sequined sunflowers that one of his team had just found. Her school bag, he assumed. Lewis looked inside. School exercise books and A4 sheets of paper, all doodled on intensively. And ID: Rowan Love, Year 10, Cheney School.

He went up to the young man who had found her, sitting on a wall beside the gate to the meadow. He had been returning home across the meadow from getting off the Oxford Tube, having stayed on until St. Aldates to see his girlfriend home. He was in a state of shock. Lewis gently told him someone would be around later that day to take a statement and got uniform to take him home, telling Tracy Hicks to stay with him, make him some tea, see he was alright. And observe him, the implication was, although Lewis was certain this boy was not a suspect. He never operated on the first person to see the body suspicions.

As Hobson stood up, having done all she could, Lewis tried to phone Hathaway again. Damn that boy!

“PM eight o’clock sharp,” Laura said curtly. Lewis acknowledged her with a faint wave.

 

Lewis couldn’t settle at home. He paced, angry with himself, going over what they had so far. No witnesses. No useful forensics. Two locations. Same MO. Young victims. Nothing to connect them. Different schools. Different areas of Oxford. Different social classes.

Where was Hathaway?

Lewis tried to phone him again, but there was still no answer.

What was wrong with the boy? He was behaving so far out of character. He didn’t do dates. He was celibate.

There was Fiona. But that hadn’t worked out, and he wasn’t sure exactly what had happened there, either. He’d been very reluctant to be pushed, only going with money. And when Lewis knew a little more about Hathaway’s past that joke had turned more than a little sour. He’d never known what had gone on with Scarlett either, but then James had definitely been out of character.

Hathaway crippled by Catholic guilt and in denial. Nope, he wasn’t out of character, for once, he was actually just out.

Which should be a good thing, if it wasn’t for his history, his naivety and those texts.

And the bruise.

Lewis tried again, leaving a message.

“James, just text me. I’m not angry; I just need to know you’re okay. There was a body... Hell, young girl, so young. You should have seen her, innocent little thing. How can anyone... Oh hell!” He hung up, tears in his eyes. He’d been at this job too long to let it get to him like this.

Lewis paced like a caged tiger for a few minutes before grabbing his keys and headed for James’ flat, worried. It really wasn’t like him, and a man that hit him on their first date and sent texts telling him he was going to make him a bitch... Lewis knew nothing about James past or sex life, but he’d hazard a guess it had been pretty non-existent so far, unlike his childhood. What if this date had gone horribly wrong?

 

Breaking and entering, something that was taught early on in a policeman’s career so it took Lewis all of two seconds to get the front door open, and slightly longer to get into the basement flat. He walked into a strong smell of coffee, soured wine and cigarettes. As he walked in he could see the back of the sofa, he could see the tips of James’ spiked up hair, strangely pink and glittery at one end and two pink socked feet at the other. He couldn’t hear him breathing.

“James?”

Lewis walked around the sofa, seeing the coffee table first. Pile of books, a coffee mug and wine glass, ashtray, the chessboard, another coffee mug and a used condom.

Used condom! At least he’d done as he was told, Lewis supposed, scared to turn round. He forced himself to look at James, still unable to hear him breathe. For a moment Lewis was truly afraid, James was so pale, so still, he could have been dead.

He lay face down, head turned slightly to face the back of the sofa, his hair brushed up at the back and sprayed over with pink glitter, just like the dead girl. He was in a pink shirt, pushed right up to his shoulder blades and nothing else but the pink socks, his long legs stretched, parted slightly, one foot resting on the arm rest and the other hanging off the end of the sofa. His arms were under his head, elbows sticking out. Lewis could see one pink pearl cufflink above his pale wrist as his sleeve was wriggled up his arm. The other cufflink must have fallen off, as the cuff of the other sleeve was undone. In between were James’ long, naked legs, which Lewis couldn’t help but admire. He realised he wasn’t so much bothered by someone having James like that, more at the thought of someone else having James like that. It was a horrible moment of revelation that he didn’t need.

Lewis let out a gasp of shock, because however much he looked he couldn’t make out the rise and fall of James chest, and he was so white, milk white. He steeled himself and reached out to James’ neck to feel for a pulse.

Thank God, a slow, steady pulse. Now he peered, he could see the slight flutter of his shirtsleeve as he breathed out, slowly and deeply.

Lewis took a hanky out of his pocket and picked up the wine glass from the floor and sniffed. Smelled okay. He looked at he floor, smashed glass coffee maker, spilled wine, coffee grounds and glass spread on the carpet. He’d stood on the glass as he’d taken James’ pulse. He reached out again and ruffled James’ hair and patted his cheek.

“James?”

“H’m m’m?”

Lewis patted his cheek harder and rubbed at his hair. His hand came away pink and glittery.

“James? Wake up!”

“Wha – what?”

Lewis was picking up his coffee cup with a hanky and sniffing it when James, drowsily, opened his eyes and saw his boss.

“S-sir!” He struggled to sit up, completely forgetting his state of undress.

“Hello James? Alright?”

Lewis focused his attention entirely on James’ face. Smudged pink glittery eye make-up to match the hair, shimmering lipstick smeared across his face, two love bites below the jaw line, big unfocused, confused blue eyes staring up at him. James struggled to turn over and sit up, and as he did so he realised his state and blushed furiously. He tugged at his shirt, covering himself a bit. Lewis turned away, picking up James’ boxers and handing then to James, making a show of not looking as James pulled them hurriedly on.

“Sir?”

“You weren’t answering your phone, sergeant. I was worried, ” Lewis said, turning back round, his gaze unwillingly falling onto the used condom.

“It’s not mine!” James protested quickly. “I mean, that is to say, I didn’t wear it!”

“You’re only digging yourself in a deeper hole. I know you didn’t wear it James. I’m not daft. The only question is, did you consent?”

“Of course I did!” James watched his boss walk around the coffee table and come and sit next to him. “I think.”

“You think?”

“I was a bit drunk. Well, very drunk, actually.”

“So, which is it James?”

James frowned, confused. He still looked very drunk to Lewis, and drugged perhaps. He also looked a mess, smudged make-up, messy, sticky hair, lips slightly swollen – this boyfriend of his was a very aggressive kisser, making Lewis instantly hate him.

“I - I’m not sure, I wanted – I think. Sir! What are you doing?”

Lewis had taken a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket along with a small evidence bag, his hand hovering over the condom.

“Evidence, James, before we call rape suite.”

“No! I did want – look, I got blind drunk because I wanted – I was scared, but I wanted to, I just don’t actually remember...”

“Too drunk to answer the phone?”

“I don’t remember the phone ringing,” James said, looking down. “I’m sorry sir. Was it important?”

“Another victim. 15. Sweet girl, from the look of her, arty, younger than her years, you know? Pink plastic clips not make-up and heels. Same MO as before.”

“Oh God. Her parents!”

“She had pink glitter in her hair. Like you,” Lewis reached out and ruffled James’ hair. “You okay?”

“Are you sir?”

“Oh, you know me. Thick skin, been there, seen it all. Sad, yeah, but...” Lewis’ eyes misted over and he looked away.

“I’m sorry sir. For everything.”

“Well, you know, these things... Are you alright, James? Apart from blind drunk? Did he hurt you?”

“Hurt me?”

“This was your first time, right? I’m only guessing, but you said you had to get drunk.” Lewis couldn’t believe he was asking this, James wasn’t a victim, he didn’t have the right to pry into to his sergeant’s private life!

James didn’t reply. He seemed to have gone even paler, if that was possible. He sat forward, putting his head between his legs.

“Oh God!”

“James?”

Lewis briefly touched his back and rubbed. James suddenly and violently was sick on the carpet. He whimpered. The room was spinning, or everything seemed spiralling into his head, or out of his head. He felt so disorientated. When Lewis put a supporting arm across his shoulder James leant into him.

“I feel... weird. Sorry Sir, I... Oh God!” James stood up, hand over his mouth, but his legs wouldn’t support him. Lewis caught hold of him just before he stumbled and fell into the broken glass. He threw up again. Lewis held him, then felt his forehead. He was burning.

“Come on, pet,” he said, “let’s get you to bed.” He guided James the other was around the sofa, away from the glass, coffee grounds and wine and led his to his bedroom, which Lewis had never seen before. As tasteful and as arty as the rest of his place, of course. He pulled the quilt back.

“I should have a...” James began.

“I feel... weird. Sorry Sir, I... Oh God!” James stood up, hand over his mouth, but his legs wouldn’t support him. Lewis caught hold of him just before he stumbled and fell into the broken glass. He threw up again. Lewis held him, then felt his forehead. He was burning.

“Come on, pet,” he said, “let’s get you to bed.” He guided James the other was around the sofa, away from the glass, coffee grounds and wine and led his to his bedroom, which Lewis had never seen before. As tasteful and as arty as the rest of his place, of course. He pulled the quilt back.

“I should have a...” James began.

“In the morning. And take the day off, sergeant, that’s an order. How much have you had to drink?”

“About two bottles of wine. A bit more, maybe? Brandy. Scotch. And...” James went even paler and put his hand to his mouth again. Lewis pulled him out of bed and guided him to the bathroom. He held James’ forehead while he was sick a third time, and then ran a bath.

Lewis remembered Mark coming home, aged 15, blind drunk for the first time, Val going ballistic, Mark terrified of him because he’d broken the law, drinking underage. He’d been sick, too. Copiously.

And he remembered Lyn, 17, coming back from a party in tears, locking herself in the bedroom. Val, realising Lyn had slept with a boy, not her boyfriend, had started shouting about how stupid she’d been, had she considered the risks, they didn’t bring her up to... until Val too was in tears and he’d been left to calm both of them down. He had to check then, too, if Lyn had been sure about the consent, as she had been drunk too. More than drunk, he suspected, but Lyn was hardly going to confess that to him.

James wasn’t his child. He may sometimes feel protective of him, and want to look after him, but over the past few days he’d had to face what he felt for James was far from paternal. But he’d left it too late. At least he could be what he hoped he was already as well as his boss: his friend.

“Was it just alcohol?” Lewis asked.

James, sitting on the toilet seat, shook his head.

“First time for that too?”

James nodded. “I feel horrible, like everything is spinning out of my head.”

“You’re burning up James, this may be a virus too. Can you manage if I leave you?”

“I think. Thank you. Sir.”

“For what?”

“For being kind.”

Lewis snorted and shrugged. “Have your bath James and wash that muck off. You look like a debauched fairy.”

“Sir!”

“What?”

“That’s homophobic!”

“Not if I meant it literally. What’s with all the glitter anyway? Where did he take you?”

“Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons.”

“Cheap date, you are not, you lucky man. Was the food good?”

“I was too nervous to notice.”

“Have your bath, I’ll try to clean up the mess.”

 

It took half the night to clean the cream carpet, but when Lewis took black coffee, a pint of water and a bowl to James in bed he found the lad fast asleep. He left a note reminding him to take the day off and he’d see him Friday and left


	3. Chapter 3

Lewis stood at the back of the room, biting his thumbnail, a habit he’d long given up, as Hobson again talked him through the slit throat, the rape. With gloves and a condom, no traces of DNA from the assailant at all. The cut was neat, clean, quick. She was butchered; he’d known what he was doing. Butchered like an animal.  
Fifteen years old!

“I can’t tell you anything more to help you. She’d had a dinner of meat and pasta, bolognaise probably, and a later snack involving tuna and peanut butter and bread. Oh, and ice cream. Raspberry? Strawberry? Cherry? Something like that? The ladybird here,” Hobson touched the girl’s arm tenderly, “was a real tattoo. I assumed it was a transfer. Someone broke the law.”

“Doesn’t matter in the great scheme of things Laura. Poor kid.”

“Going places, judging from her weird, creative clothes. Fashion designer of tomorrow?”

“Not anymore. She didn’t have a boyfriend. Two friends, a bit older. Hippies or goths or something. I’m going to see them later, after her father. Poor man. He’s in a state of shock. And her Granny.”

“No Mum?”

“Off finding herself. No-one knows where she is.”

“No James today?”

“I told him to take the day off. He had a bit too much to drink last night.”

“You went round Robbie? You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why? If I hadn’t...” Lewis walked up to Laura and the body, touching the girl’s hair. “He had this same glitter in his hair.”

“James? Pink glitter hair spray?” Laura couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice.

“Yeah. Face down, unconscious, violently sick just after I arrived and woke him up. If I’d not been there he’d have choked on his own vomit. He was out of it, Laura.”

“Alone then? What happened to his boyfriend?”

Lewis shrugged and rubbed his eye.

“But he had had a date?”

“Oh yes, but the bastard just...”

“Had him and left?” offered Laura.

“We shouldn’t gossip about James like this.”

“We do it because we care. Or at least, I care. For you it goes much deeper, I think?”

Lewis shrugged. “Maybe. Could be. Too late now.” He thought about how he’d seen James last night and sighed. James was comfortable to be with, understood him, and maybe as Laura had pointed out, dishy, an ‘equine nine’, but seeing him almost naked...

“Okay?”

“No, stressed to tell the truth. Innocent and I are doing a press conference at midday. Which will be hell. Pretty her up, her father’s coming at ten for the formal ID.”

“I’ll do my best. As always.” She watched Lewis walk away. “Robbie?”

“Yes?”

“I wasn’t going to say this but I saw James, that Friday, after we left. I’d parked in the Broad and was on my way back. He’d hit him.”

“What? James told me the bruise was an accident.”

“I suppose it depends on how you define accident. He wanted James then, and when James said no he hit him, then apologized, all charming and persuasive.”

“Well, I can’t let James know I know can I?”

“Just pick up the pieces.”

“Yeah,” Lewis sighed, “that’s me, the nice bloke who picks up the pieces. See you Laura.”

 

Hathaway came into work at seven the following day and spent hours going through CCTV again; if only he could just find someone, one male figure that was on an image of Alice and one of Rowan. He’d read the forensics and pathologist reports, as well as Lewis’ report as soon as he arrived. He hadn’t been at this job for decades and he hadn’t been able to develop a thick skin. He was shocked, horrified and disgusted. Two young girls. So far. Things like this went on.

So intent on finding anyone that appeared with both victims he didn’t notice when his boss came into work. He flinched as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Alright now James?”

“Sir?”

“Get us a cup of coffee then and come into the office,” Lewis told him.

He didn’t need telling twice. As he placed the mug on Lewis’ desk he said awkwardly, “Thank you, Sir, for – you know...?”

Lewis smiled, equally awkwardly, “Not a problem.”

“Saw you on TV yesterday. They were giving you and the Chief a hard time, but I thought you both did okay.”

“Thank you, but I’m not sure I agree. Vultures are out there now, chasing me from the car to the door.”

“Sorry Sir.”

“Not your fault James. I remember years ago, some high profile murder, this tabloid hack had it in the neck for Morse, decided just because he had an education he was personally responsible for our failure.” Lewis sighed deeply. “Beginning to appreciate how he felt. At least it’s not just me and it’s not personal. Any how, got a job for you.” Lewis picked up two huge files and threw them at James’ desk. “Need your eye for detail. Interviews so far with the friends and schoolmates of both girls – not that Rowan had many, poor love, a bit of a victim of the school bullies, but she had two sisters, very close.”

“What do you want Sir?”

“Connections, James, connections, here in Oxford or in cyberspace, these being teenagers.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good lad. Now nip down to the canteen and get me a bacon roll.”

Hathaway could have skipped and danced down the corridor and down the stairs, so happy and relieved that Lewis hadn’t changed his attitude one bit, despite the state he’d found him. He spent the following two days going through every interview, new ones arriving throughout Friday. Everyone went home and he stayed, going home at five am to shower, shave and change in to jeans and tee shirt and came back to an almost completely empty building to carry on. By six o’clock Saturday evening he gave up, realising that there was nothing to connect the girls whatsoever.

Still no text or call from Ellis.

James took a relaxing bath with a bottle of wine, chocolate and a Thomas Hardy and then went to bed. Only the fact he’d been up over 36 hours let him sleep. The following morning he was up bright and early for early morning mass.

Two hours later saw him sick with guilt and self-loathing. That night a terrorist bomb had exploded in Spain, and the 24 hours news media lost interest in the ‘Oxford Ripper’. It only took two victims to make a serial killer, if both were pretty young girls under 18 apparently.

He went home and changed into grey sweats, a tight purple tee shirt and pulled on a pale lilac hoody and went rowing. He was walking along Rose Lane, trying not to think of Rowan Love’s broken body being found there a few days ago, when his phone rang.

It was Ellis!

“Hello.”

“How you doing babe? Did you miss me?”

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

Ellis laughed. “I’ve been busy honey. Think you have been too, D.S. Hathaway. Sick, right? So, what you up to honey?”

“I was just going rowing.”

“Really? I used to row a bit, at school. Maybe... No, gotta get a train or something, and they’re crap on Sunday.”

“Train? What?”

“Coming to see you baby boy. Not for long though. University boat house or Donnington Bridge?”

“University.”

“Fine baby, I’ll meet you there in – say, an hour. Shit! Hey!” James could hear Ellis talk to someone, asking for a ticket to Oxford. “Got on the bus. I didn’t even know the Express ran on a Sunday.”

“Where’s the car?”

“Oh, lent it to the same friend. Sunday school’s taking the kids to Beale Park? Know it?”

“No.”

“Her, the kids and a single mum and her disabled kid. Couldn’t say no, could I?”

By now James was at the bridge that crossed the Cherwell. “Shall I see you in an hour?”

“Yes, honey. Look forward to it, gorgeous. Later!” He hung up.

Ellis of the many voices, first African, then public school, now black British. His friend was a woman? With children? Something about that made James suddenly feel Ellis wasn’t as alarming as he first thought.

James was just putting his trainers on before he carried the boat back in when Ellis arrived, waving at James and holding up a brown paper carrier bag. He waited until James had returned for the boathouse before speaking. He was in civvies for the first time, black jeans, red and black Nikes and a Rugby shirt in orange and black with a white collar.

“So, rowing, honey? Looking good babe,” Ellis said, meaning it, although James didn’t believe him. He was dressed very differently from Wednesday, in his tracky bums and tee shirt, gold crucifix on a chain around his neck and the only make-up dark brown mascara.

James stared evenly at Ellis, hiding how nervous he was truly feeling, and pulled on his hoody, before he spoke. “Yeah, I used to row a bit, at university. I’ve recently started again.”

“Okay, that’s cool. I’ve bought us lunch.” He held up the bag, James was surprised to think that Ellis seemed nervous too. “We could have a picnic here, in the meadow? I’ve not got long before I’ve got to get back.”

James smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

“Roast beef sandwiches, crisps and water. I stopped at Green’s. Is that okay with you, honey?” Ellis’ seeming increasingly uncharacteristically nervousness was beginning to make James nervous. Had he done something wrong on Wednesday?

They walked back up the Thames and crossed the Cherwell, and walked back along beside it towards the city. They found an empty bench under a willow tree looking over to the Botanic Garden and sat, awkwardly, Ellis eating, James picking until eventually James asked if he’d done something wrong.

“No. Oh no babe. You’re beautiful. Perfect. I just - look, you won’t understand this, but when I phoned you I’d just been to church. Where we met, in fact. I worship there.”

“Do you feel guilty? Dirty? Filthy? Unclean? Sinful? As if you’re ignoring God’s scripture just by existing? That you’re told you have a choice but you know you have no choice, that however much you’re taught God will change you, wash you clean and sinless, you can’t change who you are and how you feel?” James snorted sarcastically. “No, I don’t understand it at all.”

Ellis stared at James for a moment, his eyes inscrutable. “Yes,” he said finally, “that sums it up quite nicely James.”

James’ eyes widened in surprise at the use of his name. Ellis had used his name.

“So you’re a Methodist?”

“Actually, no, back home my family worship at a charismatic church, but all us Ghanaians worship there. As the only Ghanaian officer I...” he shrugged. “Besides the closest churches are very white, middle class, very... Oh!” Ellis threw his hands up in the air, at a loss at how to describe what he meant.

“You probably unsettle them. Evangelicals and charismatics tend to be very white and affluent around the county – you’re not needing sponsorship or your church back home funding, so...” James shrugged. “I could probably get you the address of a church you’d feel at home with in Oxford, there are lots of charismatic and Pentecostal churches around Cowley and Blackbird Leys.”

“I knew you were clever baby, but its okay. As I say, the others worship there and to be honest, after a Saturday night in the Mess its all I can do to get myself to a 10.30 service down the road, let alone all the way over here. But you are clever, honey, to understand is one thing, you have a faith, but to know so much...?”

“I have a theology degree.”

“Ah. Bet it’s a first?”

James shrugged.

“Thought so baby.”

They fell back into an awkward silence. Eventually Ellis spoke.

“So, do you have a faith? Degrees give you intellectual information, not absolute understanding. Don’t hate yourself baby. I’m a bad man, I’ve done all kinds of shit. You baby, you’re perfect. God made you perfect. Shit, baby, I took your cherry, didn’t I? Eh?”

James looked down, red. “I’m not perfect,” he mumbled.

Ellis cupped his chin and made him look up. “I love you baby boy, my honey haired, lovely, perfect bitch,” he said before kissing him. James kissed back, putting his hands in his hair and opening his mouth, flicking tongues, being a little proactive for the first time. Eventually Ellis broke the kiss and pulled away.

“Hey, hey slow down. I can’t come back with you and if you don’t cool down, you dirty bitch, you’ll have to arrest yourself!”

James blushed furiously. “I’m Catholic,” he said suddenly. “I’ve been to mass this morning. That’s how I understand completely. It’s why I went rowing, to distract myself at how guilty I felt.”

Ellis put his hand on James’ thigh. “Not now?”

James shrugged.

Ellis grabbed his hair and pulled him into another one of his dangerously aggressive kisses. James moaned. When Ellis pulled away this time he laughed. “Catholic? No wonder you are such a dirty, dirty bitch! I wish I had time to go back to your flat, honey, but let’s chill. Something romantic.” He watched the river for a while. “Know where we can hire one of those?”

“A punt?” clarified James. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go!” Ellis leapt to his feet.

James felt he should offer to pay for the hire of the punt, having paid for nothing thus far, but Ellis scoffed at it. He had more than enough money, besides which, James was his bitch, he deserved to be treated. Again the butterflies danced in James’ stomach. Every time he was called a bitch he was contradictorily both offended and excited. It never made any sense. Ellis was basically, fundamentally hopeless at punting. James took over, Ellis complaining he should be doing it, James was his bitch and deserved to be treated properly. James, relaxed, told Ellis not to be so uptight, to chill, but then, for one moment, felt afraid, before Ellis face split into a wide grin before he laughed happily.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll just chill out baby!” he lay back and looked at the sky.

James felt relaxed too, a second hour on the river. It was a beautiful April day, more like June that April, mild, warm and sunny. All the trees were nearly in leaf, still in that pale new green of spring. Everywhere along the river, were ducks chasing each other. Swans glided past, other people in punts and rowboats. Couples, families, groups of students. James took the up stream along the Cherwell to Ferry, emptier of early tourists and not many students. He moored the punt in an excluded spot and he and Ellis lay inside the boat and kissed some more, Ellis keeping it gentler than he had before. James, however, had other ideas.

“Baby, cool down. I’ll see you my first evening off this week!” Ellis said, pulling apart. He cupped his hand in the river and threw some water at James, who shrieked and tried to do the same to Ellis who checked his move, and swiftly over powered him, only to use his physical advantage to tickle James without mercy. James hadn’t laughed so hard in a long while.

After they took the punt back Ellis checked his watch. Half an hour to the bus, which luckily left just outside Christchurch. They sat on another secluded bench and kissed again. Suddenly a hostile Texan voice was threatening the police. They broke apart, Ellis tensing, his hands balling into fists, his eyes darkening dangerously. James put a hand over one fist and took his badge out of the front pocket of his hoody and shook his head slightly to Ellis.

“Why Sir? Nobody’s breaking the law here,” James asked politely.

“It’s gross. Two faggots making out...”

“We’re not breaking the law, sir, but you might be close to...”

There were four men, all in their sixties, tourists obviously, and they all began shocked and vitriolic rants at James, staring hatefully at Ellis. James stood, feeling for his phone in his other pocket, finger finding the speed dial for back up.

“Kissing is not against the law sirs, for anyone, straight, gay or lesbian. Not in England. We have equality legislation here. However, what is against the law is verbal assault, in this case homophobic verbal insult, and therefore considered a hate crime.”

“Crap,” said the first man, going somewhat purple.

“I could quote you exact legislation if you like sir,” James said and showed him his badge.

“What, you’re a faggot cop?”

“Yup. And my boyfriend here is a decorated military officer, and that, sir, was insulting a police offer, which I’m sure, is a crime in your country too. Now please, why don’t you all calm down and enjoy your holiday...”

The men obviously had had too much to drink. The one that had seemed the quietest, standing further away from his compatriots, suddenly stepped forward, aggressively pointing a finger in James’ face. He shouted out a disgusting racist insult, laced with homophobia and good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon.

“Right. That’s it. That is most definitely a hate crime under...”

Sensing he was about to make an arrest, two of the other men pulled their aggressive companion off him while the first spoke.

“We’re sorry officer, we’ve had a bit too much of the old vino...”

“I’m sure you don’t want your holiday ruined by a night in the police cells,” James agreed, “but that word has no place in acceptable British society sir,” James looked at the man who had spat out the ugly racist word.

The man looked like he was about to say something else, but another put a hand on his shoulder.

“The officer knows the law, Hal. Gays can even marry here.”

“And serve in the army, which ain’t right!” Hal spat out, but the other three pulled him away and they continued down the yellow path towards The Head of the River.

“Fucking amazing baby! I’d have probably hit the old bastard.”

“Then I’d have had to arrest you too,” James said dryly. “They’re old. And it’s not good for economy to arrest too many tourists.” He smiled and climbed onto Ellis’ lap, straddling his hip and leaning down to kiss him, hands running over Ellis’ hair, loving the feel of the different, rough texture of his short African tight curls. Ellis’ hands came up, one hand around the back of his neck and the other in James’ soft, silky hair, enjoying the difference, the smoothness and softness.

Suddenly Ellis broke apart and pushed James off him.

“Fuck fuck fuck! I’m gonna miss my bus. See you babe,” and he ran off, calling back as a parting shot, “I’m getting to feel like Cinderella!”

James couldn’t stop laughing.

 

Monday and Tuesday were as unproductive as the previous few days. No witnesses came forward. The media had de-camped and moved to Spain, all except the local media. Lewis gave interviews on Radio Oxford and the local commercial radio advising girls and young women to not walk alone, to always go in at least pairs, or, better, a crowd, or with a man would be even better and to always let someone, parent, teacher, friend, know where you were going.

Lewis was driving through Oxford, wincing at himself on the radio on the news at the top of the hour when Hathaway got a text. They had just been to talk again to Mr. Love, and the two teenage girls huddled on the sofa with a little boy and three cats staring blankly as their Dad had mechanically answered his questions had been too much to bear. Hathaway had returned from looking at the girl’s bedroom and he’d extracted them from the house pretty sharpish. Hathaway, too, had been unsettled. Very unsettled, revealing a rare insight into his background and family history, saying as they got into Lewis’ car,

“Her room is like my cousin’s, when she was younger. I had to stay with her one summer, surrounded by glitter and fairy lights and all that pink silk and satin.”

“Must have been unbearable for,” Lewis said dryly, the hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I was twelve.”

“The pink glitter’s probably your cousin’s fault then,” Lewis replied.

Hathaway had let out a small snort of humour before going back to contemplating the dead girl’s room, empty and abandoned. There was nothing, no clue to her killer. She didn’t have Internet access at home, the home had one ancient pc for their Dad’s business, a bicycle repair shop, and the oldest sister had a laptop. It had looked like money was a real struggle. Four kids, one parent, and what had looked like a dozen cats and a few dogs. There had been no notes or any indication she knew someone she was keeping a secret. She’s snuck out to go to a gig with her two art student friends and had left then to rush home through Christchurch meadow, only making it as far as Rose Lane.

Now Hathaway was smiling, a secret, dirty smile.

“From your boyfriend then?” asked Lewis, casually.

“Yes, actually.”

“No need to sound defensive James. I’m pleased you’ve got a fella. Happy that you’re happy with yourself, not that messed up lad I pulled out of the fire.”

Hathaway stared at his boss, completely dumfounded. On the one hand, it was wonderful his boss had just accepted him for what is was, just as Lewis had always tried to tell him through hints for years that he would; however, on the other hand, Lewis being a little jealous of Ellis would have been wonderful.

“Well, is it? Or does forensics make you smirk and blush?”

“It’s Ellis. He’s coming over.” James replied, now texting a reply to Ellis. “I’m telling him not to bother taking me out, I’ll cook.”

“Well, then he’s a lucky man James.”

“Thank you sir,” James said sweetly. But then his phoned beeped and he instantly looked a bit rattled.

“Okay?” Lewis asked carefully.

“Fine,” snapped James, not fine at all, because Ellis had just reminded him he wasn’t to text or ring on very crude terms. He deleted the text, in case Lewis took it into his head to go spying again.

 

Lewis told James to go early, but unfortunately CID were called into a stabbing at a youth club in Rose Hill just before six and James didn’t get home until gone seven, unable to go shopping for ingredients and wine as he would have liked. Ellis was sitting on the steps.

“Where have you been honey?” he snapped, crisp public school tones overlaid with African rhythms.

“Sorry, Ellis, but I got called to a stabbing just as I was leaving. Rose Hill. Thirteen years old. Victim and perpetrator. Could have gone either was, of course, but as it is, the black boy’s in hospital, the Asian into secure foster care, too young for the cells. Fight over nothing, a twelve years old girl.”

“Ain’t nothing when you’re thirteen baby, is it? Shame they couldn’t have settled it with fists.”

“I s’pose. Wouldn’t know about the girls, I went to an all boys school.”

“Well, so did I, but girls did exist.”

“For you Ellis?” James smiled.

“Not for me, no,” Ellis grinned widely back. “Not for you either baby. But for my mates, for yours too, yeah?”

Just then the young couple that lived above James came home and pushed through them on the steps to unlock the door.

“Say something,” hissed the woman.

“Alright James?” he asked shyly.

“Fine thanks, you?”

“Not too bad.”

“About the noise,” she hissed again.

“No!” her boyfriend said firmly and shoved her inside in front of him.

Ellis laughed and bounced up the steps. “I better gag you baby!”

James scowled and flushed pink with embarrassment and anger. He walked past Ellis, going inside and unlocking his flat door. Ellis followed him in, shut the door and then pounced, kissing him deeply...

... In the bedroom Ellis undid James’ shirt buttons and slid it off his shoulders, kissing his mouth, chin, neck then shoulder as he did so. Suddenly Ellis stopped, pressing a thumb on a scar on James’ shoulder.

“You’ve been shot.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“In the line of duty?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“How like you baby, to make light. Bet it hurt.”

“Like hell.”

“My brave, brave baby boy.” Ellis kissed the scar...

 

Ellis lay on the bed and took James in his arms. It was still not yet nine o’clock. He had hours with his honey babe. James snuggled into him, sighing. He stroked James hair. This was nice, this cuddling business. Didn’t do much of this before with anyone. He kissed the top of James’ honey waves. He loved the feel of his hair, like short strands of twisted silk.

“I love you, my honey baby. You’re my bitch aren’t you, eh? You love it? Baby boy, you are so sweet, my little puppy bitch.”

“I think I love you too, but I’m not sure if I know what love is.”

“Baby!” Ellis squeezed him tight. “Hey, honey, don’t go to sleep. You said you’d cook for me.”

“But I never had time to go shopping. I could do us some pasta, and there’s a little red wine, but...”

Ellis laughed. “That’s fine honey. That will be great.”

*

While James cooked, and over dinner, Ellis for the first time began to ask James questions about himself, starting with why he was late that evening and the Oxford Ripper case to why he was a policeman. James wasn’t really sure himself, and he actually seemed to shock Ellis when he told him he’d been in a seminary.

After they’d eaten Ellis was true to his word and got James to play some guitar for him, surprising James after a while by singing, very well, in a rich baritone. It was the most unexpected and lovely evening for James. They talked of music, of African rhythms travelling the world through slavery to inspire and root most twentieth century music. James shouldn’t have been surprised at how intelligent Ellis was, and hated himself for being so.

When they went back to bed this time Ellis undressed too and they got under the quilt, Ellis being far gentler than before, spooning them together and holding him tightly. They fell asleep the same way, Ellis curled around James and cuddling him like he never wanted to let him go.

When James awoke he found he’d turned around in his sleep, his head on Ellis’ chest, his arm and leg wrapped over him. It felt nice and he was drowsy. It took a few seconds to register that a ringing phone had awoken him.

“Oh no. No! Not another girl, please,” he said, sitting up.

“No baby,” Ellis said, climbing out of bed and pulling his phone from his jacket pocket.

“Steve mate, what’s up?

“Is it? Shit! What’s the hurry? The others back? I said 2:30 mate. It’s what? Ten to two?

“Okay. On my way.”

He switched the phone off. “He is such a tosser. Gotta go babes. Supposed to be giving the other guys a ride.”

“Where? Where are you parked?”

“Redbridge park and ride.” Ellis began to dress. “Steve says it’s pissing it down.”

“You’ll never get there in half an hour. In the kitchen, on my notice board, you’ll find a taxi company card. They’re good, they’ll get me to a crime scene when my car is still at Kidlington straight away.”

“Okay honey,” Ellis wandered out half dressed. He returned drinking a glass of water and then pulled on tee shirt, jacket and trainers. He leant forward to kiss James deeply. “Have to go. See ya. Love ya. Take care honey baby.” And he was gone.

 

James fell back asleep straight away, feeling happy, loved and satiated. Three hours later the phone woke him again, this time his work phone. Another body. This time it was male. James quickly showered and dressed, convinced he was attending a usual drunken brawl gone wrong. The assailant would have probably been apprehended by the time he got there.

There being in some bushes behind the Christchurch Meadow kissing gates entrance to the Head of the River and Folly Bridge, a stone’s throw from St. Aldates’ Police Station.


	4. Chapter 4

The sky was beginning to lighten, and an early cold spring dawn was on its way. The unseasonably warm weather of the sunny days left the nights chilly and frosty. Lewis stamped and huffed his way to the car towards the scene of crime, SOCOs shiny white in the orange glare of the lamps and indigo blue of the sky. John came up to him, handing him ID. One Julian Kirran, eighteen, chemistry student at Balliol, on his way back from a Young Conservative meeting. Not the type for a drunken brawl, he supposed. One dead Tory, he thought, smiling in black humour. Of course the death of any kid would bother him. He could see Hobson, bending over the body, which was face down, trousers down, boxers down, angle of head lolling with a slit neck. It looked like the same MO as the two girls.

Shit. Their ‘Ripper’ was bisexual.

As Lewis approached he went cold. Despite what he’d been told, the lanky body and the same blond hair, same style, put James in his mind so much he forgot to breathe.

“Robbie,” Hobson said sharply. She stood, looking angry. “Same MO as the girls. I can, categorically, say at this scene that he has been sexually assaulted.”

“Anally raped?”

“Yes.”

“Throat slit from ear to ear?”

“Yes, and that’s not all. Obviously, a big boy like this is going to make life difficult. He was tied up, hands behind his back, with some kind of nylon rope. I’ll know more later. And he’s been cut, repeatedly, to make a point about cooperation, I would guess. Lower on the throat and over the shoulders and shoulder blades. Through his shirt. Poor sausage.”

“A bit older than our other two?”

“Well, only just Robbie, the first was upper sixth, he’s first year university.”

“Damn! Damn damn damn and hell!”

“Sir?” Lewis span around. Hathaway had arrived. “It’s not your fault, sir. We’ve been doing everything we can to find –”

“Will the press see it that way?” he roared. Hathaway flinched. Lewis looked stricken. “Sorry, James. Do we know where his parents are?”

“Surrey. Local uniform informing them now.”

“Fine. Fine. We better get into the office and prepare for the ID and the onslaught of the media. What time’s the PM Laura?”

“I’m not going back to bed either. Seven?”

“Fine.” Lewis stalked off, turning round to snap his fingers and indicate Hathaway follow him. Hobson caught Hathaway’s look of misery and smiled sympathetically. He shrugged, and followed, feeling sick and shocked. Three brutal murderers and rapes in as many weeks. And Lewis was right, the media were going to love this, a bisexual ripper to twitter about and get in the way of the investigation, shocking and titillating and scaring the public.

As before the attacker had left no helpful fingerprints, DNA or even clothing fibre.

 

The 24 hours news media were camped outside Thames Valley CID head quarters at Kidlington before Lewis and Hathaway arrived. It was a long day, the start of a very long, unproductive week. Mr. And Mrs. Kirran arrived, a stockbroker and an old fashioned, stay at home mother and housewife, although she seemed to have some input into her husband’s job and was on plenty of committees. They were supported by Julian’s younger brother and sister, Richard and Anne, capable, strong teenagers of sixteen and fifteen, although they too were obviously in deep shock. They could not believe that something so sudden, sordid and criminal could have happened to their Julian. They seemed to regard him as indestructible; Hathaway was later to remark to his boss. They were not Lewis’ type of people, and they obviously didn’t relate to his Geordie accent so he had left Hathaway to it, probably he’d met plenty of couples like that at parents’ days at his school.

How did Mr. And Mrs. Hathaway cope, he suddenly, idly, wondered? Not your usual public schoolboy’s parents, a farm estate manager and a domestic servant.

After a week the media decamped, having got an interview out of Alice’s parents and Rowan’s friends and some students from Julian’s staircase, plus two more statements that mercifully, Innocent did on her own. The media had been particularly fishing on the Kirran boy, and had been immensely disappointed to not be able to interview his family, friends or anyone from his college rowing crew or rugby team. Still, they had plenty from back copies of local newspapers and TV news archives: Julian, it seemed, along with his brother and sister and a cousin of indeterminate gender with its dog had, during their childhoods, assisted the police solve crimes of drug running and kidnapping throughout Dorset, Devon, Cornwall and Wales.

Hathaway put in all the hours he could stay conscious and focused, practically staying at work for days and days, going home only to shower and change and grab a few hours fitful sleep. The victims and their families haunted him every time he closed his eyes. He’d thought he found some immunity, some numbness to the violence he had to deal with, but these... It was like the Zelinksy case all over again, but with the ever present fear it was going to happen again, and the media would blame his boss.

He had received a text from Ellis the day Julian’s body was found to say that he was away on operations for a fortnight.

There were also no new victims for two weeks and everybody began to breathe a sigh of relief, it looked like the rapist/murderer had stopped, or moved out of the country. Or died, as psych profiling always said these kind of attackers never stopped until they were caught or dead.

 

Hobson too, was fed up and unhappy. Not only did she have three young people brutally raped and murdered in her mortuary, she kept having fluctuations of huge numbers as the sudden heavy almost monsoon like rain, so unlike typical April showers, caused pile up after pile up on the A34 and M40. In fact, it was no longer April but May, and in came another young life cut short, yet another idiot jumping from Magdalen Bridge after the May Day celebrations. On top of that she was growing increasingly fed up with Lewis.

Fine, she had finally got the picture, it had never been a date, not a single drink or meal, she was the best woman friend of a surprisingly very bisexual, or even gay but accidentally fell in love with Val, Robbie Lewis. He rang her up to moan about James’ blushing at texts. They went for a drink and all he talked about was how he’d left it too late, and why hadn’t James given him any indication he was over the Catholic guilt/childhood trauma/whatever. Had he been too patient and understanding? Should he have pushed James, as this Ellis obviously had? What about the punch she’d seen? What about the awkward way he’d been walking after the last date, the day of the third body? He – Robbie Lewis – would never hurt James. When Franco phoned to say the career move had fallen through and he wasn’t coming back to Oxford after all she was so fed up and bored and angry like she could kill someone. Why didn’t anyone in CID need her to test a knife shape or what caused some bruising, she could really do with beating up a cadaver right now!

Stomping through the corridor in her best cargos, tight green tee and favourite fluffy lime cardy, wearing the face of a serial killer in sweet knitwear, she had a sudden idea. She delivered her file – the report on the May Day accidental death for Grainger – and stopped off at Innocent’s office, leaning on the doorframe as she watched Jean Innocent gather her handbag and laptop. She was in a tight fitting purple satin shift dress with matching jacket and shoes with killer heals.

Innocent looked up, a little alarmed. Hobson made an effort to soften her features; she obviously still looked ready to scalp someone with her favourite scalpel. She smiled sweetly.

“Did you want something Dr. Hobson?”

“Oh, I was just wondering, Mr. Innocent out of town is he?”

“Well, yes he is doctor, but... What are you doing here?”

“Just delivered a file to Grainger and I thought I’d pop by to see how you’re doing. You must be stressed, what with the ripper and the press and no doubt, unlike the rest of us, you’re getting from the Chief Constable too.”

“Well...”

“Would you like to go out for a meal? My treat.”

“Thank you doctor, that would be lovely.”

“Laura. It’s Laura.” She smiled again and held out an arm. “Coming, then Jean? You could leave your laptop. Have a night off.”

Innocent smiled happily and put the laptop back on her desk and accepted the invitation the link arms. “So, where are you taking me Laura?”

“The Turl.”

“Sounds good. I’ve heard the food is, anyway.”

“Oh, it is. And far too expensive for students and hidden away from tourists.”

 

Two weeks to the day since he’d last seen him Ellis turned up on James’ door, having not even bothered to text.

“Did ya miss me baby?”

James had never had any practice in the dating game. “Yes,” he said honestly.

Ellis followed him in, laughing. “Oh honey, I’ve missed you too.” He pulled James into one of his incredibly violent kisses. James struggled to get away, it was too much... Ellis stopped and looked hard at James. “Hey baby, don’t get frigid on me again. How about you make us some coffee, maybe something to eat, and I’ll put on the TV. Yeah? I’ll not rush you, but don’t tease me baby because I am so hard for you.” He smacked James hard on the bum as he walked off to the kitchen.

James hadn’t really got anything in, but he used up what was in the fridge to make a vegetable stir-fry and egg fried rice, which Ellis seemed happy with. They ate off trays in front of the TV. Ellis was out of uniform, this time in blue jeans and a white collarless shirt and his usual leather jacket, which he’d taken off. James had already showered and changed from work and was in jeans and a blue baggy tee shirt with no make-up, not even mascara.

After they had eaten Ellis pulled James into another kiss, this time gently. “Let’s go to the bedroom, honey, okay?”

James nodded, but first headed for the bathroom. Ellis grabbed the condoms and lube, along with his phone and headed for the bedroom. While he waited for James he had a quick rifle through James’ suit jacket that was draped over a chair. He smiled widely to himself as he pulled out handcuffs. Thoughtfully, he looked at James tie, a ghastly green floral thing, and stuffed it into his jeans pocket.

When James came in he stared, mortified, as Ellis dangled the handcuffs.

“You’ve been telling porkies,” Ellis laughed...

...“Where are the keys honey?” he whispered.

“Uh?”

“Keys baby?”

“Inside pocket, top left.”

As Ellis undid the handcuffs he became aware of how much James was shaking. “Hey, hey baby. S’sh. Did I hurt you? It was just a game, honey. I love you my honey boy you know that eh? Eh?” he pulled him into a fierce hug, pushing James face to his chest and kissing the top of his head, stroking his hair and making very African sounding soothing noises. He realised his chest was growing wet with James’ hot tears. “Baby boy, don’t cry. I love you, honey, I love you.”

Ellis released James and got them under the quilt, and setting his alarm on his phone for two am pulled James back down to his chest and carried on stroking his hair. “You’re my sparkling, beautiful bitch, right? You do know I love you?”

James nodded. “I can’t believe I just did that,” he eventually said.

“Was it fun?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe. I’m not certain. It hurt.”

“Baby, sometimes the pleasure is in the pain. Go to sleep now honey, coz I’ve worn you out I think.”

 

When James’ phone rang at five am he was alone. It was Lewis. They had a survivor. The youngest victim so far. She, miraculously, had escaped unhurt. She lived in Jericho, Lewis was on his way to pick him up. They were interviewing her at home, with her family. She was in Year 7!

“Wha – what was she doing out alone, in the middle of the night for God’s sake?” James asked, struggling to sit up.

“We’ll ask her. Don’t know if we’ll get an honest answer in front of her mother.”

James stumbled out of bed feeling dreadful. It hurt to walk. He hurt. Ellis had hurt him.

Not on purpose, he reminded himself. He looked, horrified, at the handcuffs and his tie draped over the bed board. Oh God! He covered his face with his hands, noticing slight red and purple lines around his wrists where he had struggled against the handcuffs. And he was filthy and sweaty. He didn’t think he had a time for a shower, but he had better make time.

He’d just got out of the shower when Lewis rang the doorbell. He buzzed him in and unlocked the flat door and then rushed back to his bedroom to get dressed. He looked in the mirror. No love bites today, just the bruising at the wrists and a pattern of finger bruising around his hips, upper thighs and upper arms. He didn’t notice the slight red abrasions either side of his mouth, caused by the too tight gag.

“You took for bloody ever, man. What are doing? No need to put that muck on your face on my account. Oh, I see you haven’t. Well, go back in and put on that skin stuff, cover up those bruises James.”

James stared at Lewis, stricken, and stormed back into his bedroom.

Lewis let out a huffy breath and stood up and paced around James’ living room. What had got into the man? What could he possibly see in someone so rough with him? He’d noticed bruises to the wrists, too, that probably constituted an improper use of police issue handcuffs. Lewis didn’t know whether to be angry at the abuse or just plain jealous. Really, if James was suddenly into bondage he’d happy handcuff him to his own bed, but he’d not hurt him or mark him, just ... just...

D.S. James Hathaway returned to see his boss looking very annoyed, but couldn’t figure out why. He didn’t notice his boss was struggling with hard on, having trained himself years ago never, ever to look in that direction.

They didn’t speak or look at each other for the entire drive to Jericho.

 

Hathaway followed Lewis out of the car. The street backed on to Port Meadow, with houses down one side. The victim’s house was odd, an old, dilapidated Victorian house set between modern houses, small semi detached starter homes and terraced council houses on the right and larger mock Tudor houses to the left, complete with fake country lane drive ways and gates. The house had obviously stood alone, on the edge of the meadow, once upon a time, far from the print works of Jericho and the university’s golden city far off. Now it had seen better days, the grass over grown and scattered with broken guinea pig hutches and an old easel, lying on its side. Two police patrol cars were parked outside. A constable approached his boss as they got to the gate. On the wall a sandstone sign read ‘The Banana House’.

“She seems fine, Sir. Not harmed in any way. WPC Hicks and DC Mercer are with them.”

“You found her, Baynes?”

“Yes Sir, she came running out into the street and flagged me down. She was a bit alarmed, she thought she’s killed someone. She doesn’t have a clue that he may have been the Ripper.”

“She thought she might...?”

“A very determined young lady. You’ll see Sir. Alright if I...?”

“Away with you man, get back to the station and have a cup of tea and file the statement. I’d like it on my desk first thing.”

“Sir.”

They walked up the overgrown garden and Lewis knocked on the front door. A young teenage boy opened the door, about fifteen or sixteen, in black jeans and a black Gap hoody, bare footed and sticking up longish dark hair. He regarded them with suspicious dark eyes.

“And you are?” He was very well spoken.

“DI Lewis, this is DS Hathaway. We’re here to talk to your... sister?” Lewis guessed.

“You better come in,” he sighed.

They followed the young man through to the sitting room. A fat, sweaty teenage boy of about the same age sat on a chair. A woman in long, dishevelled very blond hair and jeans and a smock top sat weeping on the floor in front of him. Sophie Mercer hovered next to them, cup of tea in hand.

“Mrs Casson,” she was saying, “do try to drink your tea.”

“I can’t bear tea, darling. I can’t think at all.”

The fat boy massaged her shoulders and mumbled something.

“Brain juice. Got it,” said the dark boy, and disappeared.

“Oh Eve!” said a girl, a younger version of her mother. She stood in the corner by the window. Beside her another girl, the same age, with red hair and amazing green eyes, sat in her wheelchair, surveying the scene with an angry expression. On the sofa lay another girl, younger, with dark curls and a detached air. Tracy Hicks perched on the end of the sofa with her notebook open. She was looking rather bemused.

Lewis indicated that Hathaway follow the boy, so he did so, hearing Lewis dismiss Tracy and Sophie.

“Alright?” Hathaway asked from the doorway, watching the boy stir instant coffee into diet coke. Now there was an idea. “Not for you, I hope?”

“No, my mother.”

“Surely Red Bull tastes nicer?”

“I have no idea. Can I get you and your Inspector some tea? Coffee?”

“I’ll do it. And you are?”

“Indigo. I can’t believe she snuck out again, after all we’ve all been stressing. It’s my fault. She wouldn’t leave me alone, chatting half the night about Tom and dawn lighting on the spires and reflecting on the rivers and needing new paint and oh! I was so fed up I put my ipod on and pulled my quilt and pillow over my head. I’m at the front, I’m next to her, I should have...”

“No one’s blaming you Indigo. You’re her brother. You’re what, 16? 17? You’re not responsible for her?”

“Of course I am,” Indigo sounded bewildered, as if it was obvious.

“Your mother...?”

“Eve would have been asleep in the shed.”

“In the shed?”

“It’s her studio. She’s an artist. She falls asleep there a lot if she has an exhibition.”

“Oh. Your father...?”

“London. I’m going to take this through to my mother. Make your coffee, do help yourself. There’s some cupcakes. Saffron and Sarah made them, so I haven’t risked it myself, but Rose has already eaten nine.”

Hathaway stared at the wall while the kettle boiled, at the most amazing doodle, graffiti, painting, art? It was obviously the Banana House, surrounded by the ocean, with little cartoon images – no, not quite cartoons, stylised images – of everyone in the sitting room, plus a dark haired suavely dressed man, far off from the rest, in a boat, surrounded by sharks and a dark haired young man leaning against the chimney pot, a guitar in hand.

When Hathaway returned with his boss’ tea he found the girl, the victim, sitting up and scowling at the room. Indigo sat next to the girl on one side and the other, teenage girl – no, she was still in the corner with the wheelchair girlfriend. There was a second Eve clone, this one older, hair piled up on top of her head in a shift nightie and cardigan and fluffy socks. Both older sister and brother looked very protective of and also desperate to cuddle their younger sister.

Someone had produced a wooden dining chair and Lewis was sat upon it, back to front, arms resting on the back of the chair.

“Rose?” Lewis began again.

Rose scowled at him.

“Your tea, Sir,” Hathaway said, passing him the mug.

“Oh. Ta James,” he said coldly. “Rose doesn’t seem to understand what has happened to her.”

Rose grew quite annoyed. “Of course I understand what happened to me. I was walking, looking up at the skyline, watching the reflections of the moon and streetlights make patterns on the stone gargoyles and thinking about them coming alive when someone grabbed me.”

“But you got away?”

“Of course,” Rose stared at Hathaway as if he were particularly thick. “My friend Molly has a thing for Sandra Bullock and Kiran and we have to watch Miss Congeniality over and over again, so to stop us getting bored we practice this thing called SING.”

“And what’s that when it’s at home?” Lewis demanded.

“Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin. Duh.”

“Self defence, Sir,” Hathaway helpfully supplied.

“Thank you James, I had got there,” Lewis snapped. He was finding this bizarre family trying his already thin patience, James having already consumed a large part.

Just then there was a knock at the front door. Indigo got up to answer it and returned a few moments later followed by a long dark haired man in jeans and a leather jacket. The older Eve clone leapt up, shrieking, “Michael darling!” and wrapped her arms around him.

“Caddy dearest,” he said before looking sternly at Rose. “Rosy Pose, have we all not told you that you mustn’t go out on your own?”

“Yes, but I’m eleven now, not ten or nine or eight.”

The household erupted into an cacophony of ‘police warnings’, ‘radio warnings’, ‘Oxford Ripper’, ‘not safe for adult women alone’ etc. Rose just sat looking smug until they all finished and said quietly,

“Yes, but I used SING, so...”

“Jesus, you could have been killed!” Michael said. “Tell her Eve. Raped and then killed.”

“But I’m fine, so...”

“He threw you back,” Hathaway suddenly said. Everyone fell silent and turned to look at him. “Like a fisherman with a sprat. You were too small, Rose, a child.”

“What about the second one?” asked the second Eve clone, Saffron was it?

“She was fifteen,” said the disabled girl quietly. “Rosy Pose is most definitely still a little girl.”

Rose looked down at her completely flat chest. “So? I whacked him in the face and elbowed him in the balls and ran. I rescued myself, so.”

“Rose,” Hathaway said gently, “last time he overpowered a young man of 18, a fit young man who plays rugby and rows. He would have been maddened by your violence, not hurt and overpowered. He chose to let you go. Please, please don’t go wandering out alone again. You have enough family and friends –” he glanced at Michael, the disabled girl and the fat boy, wondering what their connections were, “to take you out if you need to look at light.”

“So, you think if I’d been a bit bigger, more –” Rose painted a shaped picture in the air – “I would be dead?”

“Bisexual but not paedophile,” the girl in the wheelchair said bluntly. “And Rose, there are also paedophiles out there.”

“And people so drunk or drugged they just lash out, and cars driven by drunk drivers around tiny cobbled lanes,” Hathaway continued for her. “Please, you are not indestructible.”

“Oh,” Rose said thoughtfully. “You had better catch them so I can go out. So.”

“We do our best,” Lewis sighed. “Now, Rose, is there anything you can remember about this man to help us catch him?”

*

“H’m. Dark skin. Tall. Ellis wearing a black leather jacket today by any chance?” Lewis snapped once they were in the car before he could stop himself.

“Sir! That is unfair. And cheap. How dare you!”

“I’m sorry James,” but you can’t not have noticed the pattern between your dates and the Ripper’s victims, lad? Or perhaps you can, you’re deluding yourself over a lot, bruised and limping yet again. What the hell am I supposed to do with you my pet?

“Apology accepted.” Why are you being like this? You started off fine and accepting, just like you always hinted you would be. Why can’t you be happy for me?

Hathaway stared out of the window, silent and alone, desperate for Lewis to understand.

Lewis drove Hathaway home in a brooding silence, wishing James would listen to reason, have a little self respect, wishing, oh wishing, he’d been one tenth as pushy as this Ellis, if that was what it would have taken...

*

“Gay or bisexual, probably which?” Sarah demanded once the Casson household had gone back to bed, curled up in a squashy sleeping bag.

“Oh, the young tall one, gay, definitely, what with the sparkly eye shadow!”

“The Inspector? Bisexual or just bored and curious, probably which?”

“Shagging or just mega tension, probably which?”

Saffron and Sarah broke down into hysterical giggles.

“My maths teacher wears make up, does that mean he’s gay?” called Rose from her bedroom.

“Mr. Harrison?” clarified Sarah.

“Yes. So...?”

“Oh yes,” called Indigo before Sarah and Saffron got a look in.

“The officer who brought Rose home was yummy,” said Sarah.

“PC Baynes? Dreamy.”

“Careful Sarah. Hearts of stone, remember?”

“Go to sleep darlings,” called Eve, for once curled up in her own bed, dutifully squashed on one side, a space for the ever absent husband.

“Oi. You’re not supposed to fancy policemen. And I didn’t know they were allowed to be gay!” Rose shouted, angry, feeling her limelight was being stolen a bit.

“Of course they can darling. I love the pretty one, he’s made you promise to no longer go out alone. Even Daddy couldn’t make you see sense Rosy Pose.”

“Oh. Bloody Daddy!” called Rose. His safely lecture was the very reason Rose had taken to roaming the streets of Oxford at night.


	5. Chapter 5

Another week went by, almost, with no progress but also fortunately no more victims, CID and the Casson family fiercely protecting the young survivor from the news media. Rose herself seems frightenly indifferent about the whole matter, and her brother continued to speak for the family in police liaison matters. Her father had arrived from London the day after the incident, had shouted at Lewis at lot while the mother wept in the background calling herself useless, and then left. Eve hadn’t considered herself useless until the husband arrived, Lewis had commented to Hathaway.

“Don’t you hate that kind of man, one who has to belittle his partner to feel in control, to feel he is ‘the man’.”

Hathaway stared blankly for a few moments and then said, “What did you think of Eve’s paintings?”

“Well, you know more about art that I do?”

“Yes, and this is pretentious shit,” he waved a hand at the screen. Lewis got up and peered over his shoulder. Hathaway was looking at a site called ‘Bill Casson, Seriously Now’.

“Yeah, that is. I thought Eve’s stuff was good.”

“The stuff on the kitchen wall and stairs was even better.”

“Rose?”

“Rose. She’s a Michelangelo or Leonardo. Nothing else matters to her.”

“Bloody lucky though. Bill was a dick, and you’re right, he’s undermining her confidence from pure jealousy. Like I said, I hate men like that, take a woman – or man – with low self esteem and destroy what self-confidence they have.”

Lewis couldn’t have been more obvious with his hints if he’d tried. Hathaway stared at the floor, as if the dropped hints really lay there, smashed and uncaught by him. He sighed and changed the subject, wondering whether it was worth pushing Rose again to see if she remembered anything at all helpful about her attacker other than burnt umber skin on the wrist, ebony leather sleeves and titanium white plastic gloves.

Lewis sighed too, but disagreed, he didn’t think there was any point upsetting her all over again.

“But she isn’t, that’s what I just said,” Hathaway pointed out. Lewis stared at him pointedly. “Or, she probably is, in her own way.”

“But her brother is, her sister and her friends are, her mother is and her father –”

“Has gone back to London sir.”

“Good.”

Just then Hathaway’s phone bleeped. He read his text, a pink flush creeping over his neck and cheeks, a secret little smile playing on his lips. He didn’t notice Lewis go red for an entirely different reason.

“Another date, is it? He just crooked his little finger and you come running. Have you no self respect?”

“Sir!” protested Hathaway.

“Alright, none of my business. I suppose you’d like to leave early?”

“Please Sir. May I?”

Lewis never got to answer, as the phone rang. It was uniform, requesting they attend a domestic incident that had turned into a hostage situation. It wasn’t that high profile, so Lewis sent Hathaway, telling him to take Sophie Mercer. Hathaway gave him a particularly sour look as he left the office.

“Never make inspector if I don’t let you lead sometimes James,” Lewis called after him in a cheerful voice, knowing he was in some way scuppering the date.

Two women CPSOs, with their bikes, and two male uniform officers and their car, were outside the 1990s terraced council house, the end house. Neighbours were there too, offering helpful advice and pointing out how he’d always been an unstable bastard. One of the CPSOs sat on the pavement with the mother, a neighbour beside her, arms around her, while one of the constables was trying to get a statement, or at least he had pen and pad in hand. Hathaway pointed and Sophie went to join the crowd around the mother. The other policeman walked up to Hathaway, giving him a summery. He had previous for hitting his girlfriend, nights in the cells and cautions, but the girl always took him back. This time she’d had enough and was on her way to a Women’s Refuge when he’d come home early from work and caught them getting into the taxi. He had the children inside – two girls, 18 months and seven months – and was threatening to burn the house down.

Hathaway went up to the house and knocked on the door with the flat of his hand, peering in.

“Steve? Steven? My name’s James Hathaway. Will you let me in?”

“Fuck off. They’re my kids.”

“Nobody is saying their not. Let me in, maybe we can talk about access, arrangements to see them at the weekend, things like that.”

Hathaway was surprised when the door opened and he was pulled inside.

“You’re not in uniform. You don’t look like a pig, but you don’t look like a bloody social worker.”

Hathaway showed his badge. “DS Hathaway. We’ve not called social services. There’s no need, is there? They belong with their Mum, and nobody is saying you’re a bad father, even your girlfriend. Relationships break down, don’t they? Most kids get too see their dads on a Saturday, but then it’s quality time, yes? Can I see them? Just reassure me they’re okay. Please?” All the while Hathaway tried to look past the man into the living room.

“Okay.” He walked into the room, Hathaway followed. The toddler was crying silently, clinging to her baby sister. Both smelt of unchanged nappies.

Hathaway squatted down in front of them. “Hi. I’m James. Your mummy would like very much if I could take you both to her.”

The toddler smiled and reached her arms up and climbed into his arms. He shifted her on to one side and scooped up the baby.

“Hey! Leave my kids alone.”

“They belong with their Mum Steve. You and she can sort out access in the morning.” Hathaway stood and began to walk out of the room.

“I said leave my fucking kids alone!”

Hathaway carried on walking calmly out of the house, so he didn’t see Steve pick up his daughter’s little pink Barbie scooter, but he certainly felt it as it impacted on the back of his skull, causing him to stumble. It also showered him and the girls with glitter and dried mud. Hathaway, though, really saw stars, his vision blurred and bile rose in his throat, but he kept going, starting to run out of the house. A CPSO and Sophie took a child each while one constable went in to arrest the father. Luckily the second officer was on hand to catch Hathaway as he stumbled and fell, blacking out.

He came round a few moments later on the small patch of muddy grass that passed for a lawn, lying in the recovery position, Sophie sitting beside him.

“Alright sarge. Ambulance is on its way.”

“I’m fine,” he said, struggling to sit up.

The paramedics obviously agreed. They checked him over, told him to take painkillers and sleep it off, advising cold compresses. If he was sick or had blurred vision or flashing lights to go to his GP or out of hours cover. Sophie drove him home, telling him he was bloody amazing.

He took painkillers and had a long bath, getting into pyjama trousers and a tee shirt with a fleece pulled over; he couldn’t get warm. He made milky coffee because he didn’t feel like eating and putting on his favourite, most gentle and calming, chamber music CD, curled up on the sofa, holding a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel to the bump.

Half and hour later when Ellis arrived he was totally confused, having forgot Ellis was coming, or rather forgot what time it was.

Ellis came in to the flat, staring blankly at James; anger rising at the fact James had forgotten him. James tried to explain how he’d got a bash on the head at work but Ellis was becoming too angry and annoyed by the second to listen. Eventually, after much shouting on Ellis’ part and much stuttered apologies and explanations on James’, Ellis reached out and grabbed James’ hair and kissed him and point blankly demanded sex. James refused.

“Ellis, no, I can’t. I’ve got one blindingly massive headache. You can’t be serious. Please.”

By now Ellis was dangerously angry, but James couldn’t recognize the signs.

“Don’t say no to me bitch!” snapped Ellis, holding James’ arms tightly.

Desperate, and suddenly afraid of Ellis, James tried to struggle, alarmed and confused...

It didn’t take long before Ellis released James, stepping back to fasten his fatigues and walk to the sink to wash his hands. James sank to the floor, shaking and whimpering, tears streaming down his face.

“Okay honey?”

James looked up, forcing himself to look at Ellis, who was putting the kettle on.

“Come on baby, it’s over now. You’re my bitch, right? You didn’t mean no, you know you didn’t? C’mon, get up and make us some coffee. Are you gonna cook for us baby, or what?”

James looked confused. “You raped me.”

“Don’t be stupid, honey. You’re my bitch. You consented baby, you know you did.”

“When? When did I?” James couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice, but as Ellis took a step towards him he flinched back. “Sorry.”

Ellis squatted down in front of James, stroking his hair. “You okay baby? Didn’t mean to hurt you.” James backed away, curling up, letting the tears come properly. He was shaking violently. Ellis pulled him into a tight hug, stroking his hair and kissing him gently over his head and face. “S’sh, s’sh baby. I’m just a bastard sometimes; you know I never meant to hurt you. I love you baby, you know that.”

James leant into Ellis and hugged back. “Please,” he whispered between tears, “please don’t hurt me like that again. I really do have a headache, you know? This bastard locked himself in with his kids, he was going to burn the house down. I persuaded him to... Doesn’t matter.”

“Bastard hit you on the head?”

James nodded into Ellis chest, the irony of Ellis’ anger escaping him.

“How about I get us a takeaway, baby?” he stood, pulling James to his feet, supporting him to the sofa and dressing him. James lay back on the sofa, more than a little dizzy and confused. Ellis kissed him lightly on the mouth and grabbed James’ keys from the coffee table and left.

When he returned, with an Indian takeaway and a bunch of flowers, he was his normal mercurial but charming self. James felt confused but at he same time he’d wondered about whether he had consented, he was a bit concussed. Who knew what he’d said, what signals he’d given off. Ellis was being nice now. He said he loved him. And Ellis did have issues, after all. James couldn’t imagine what he’d been through, seen.

 

Hathaway went into work the next day to many curious glances. He stuck to the lie that dizzy with the crack on the head he’d fallen over in the kitchen and hit his face on the breakfast bar. He could tell Lewis didn’t buy the lie, but his boss didn’t question him, instead he just kept giving him sympathetic, concerned glances, watching him carefully as he walked, noticing he was in pain. He spent the morning with the report on yesterday’s incident before struggling with his boss’ paperwork regarding the ripper case. Lewis left him to it to go out for lunch, with Hobson, he’d gathered from the phone call his boss had a hour prior to his departure.

Lewis returned an hour later and placed a tall skinny latte and a pink cupcake in front of James.

“Pax James. I’m really sorry about early the other morning, that business after the Cassons. I’m sure you can alibi your boyfriend, and your bruises are really none of my business, as long as you know what you’re doing.”

Hathaway looked down, not daring to speak or look up, least his feelings showed on his face. He wasn’t sure if he did know what he was doing with Ellis, except the thought now of not seeing him left him feeling as sick as shaky as he did after Ellis had used him, and he knew, realistically, deep down, that was what Ellis was doing, not love making, but using. Carefully, he took a sip of his coffee.

“Thank you sir,” he replied as soon as he could trust himself to speak. “But I really did fall,” he insisted, forcing himself to believe it himself.

“Oh aye? If you say so pet,” Lewis said, suddenly thickening his accent, although deliberately or from emotion Hathaway wasn’t sure. He didn’t wait to find out, grabbing his coffee he stormed out to have a smoke, afraid he was going to cry.

When he came back Lewis was in the main office, going through CCTV yet again with Ngoti. He’d put 48 straight hours into it already, but he wished them luck on finding something he didn’t, and went back to Lewis’ paperwork.

He was still going through it when Innocent popped into the office, praising him for the rescue of the two baby girls yesterday, passing on congratulations from the Chief Constable and telling him that the local newspaper was going to run a story on it, did he want his name out of it.

“Definitely!” Hathaway replied, looking up at the Chief Super.

“Good God James! They told me the bastard hit you on the back of the head, minor concussion. I didn’t know you’d taken such a pounding. He did that, while you held his children?”

“No, Ma’am. He did just hit me once, on the back of the head. I was cooking – which the paramedic told me not to do – when I felt so dizzy I sort of... fell.” James tried to look convincingly embarrassed. Instead he looked like he had a guilty secret. “I hit my face on the breakfast bar.”

“H’m.” Innocent gave him a suspicious look. “If you say so. You must take more care, James.” She left the office. “Lewis,” she called. Lewis was talking to Mercer.

He looked up and pointed to himself, a little surprised. What had he done now?

“Walk with me.”

As they went out into the corridor, Innocent demanded what was going on, James has been punched, twice. While was he lying? She couldn’t believe he’d get into a drunken brawl.

Lewis sighed deeply. “No Ma’am, no drunken brawl. James has this boyfriend, a solider, from bomb disposal over at Didcot barracks.”

“A boyfriend? James? I didn’t realise he was gay.” Innocent paused for a moment. “That is, I didn’t really think about it. Thinking about it, it makes sense. Probably why he left the seminary and probably why he’s been celibate. So he no longer is, I assume. A boyfriend...” Innocent interrupted herself, mid flow. “Are you implying that this boyfriend is hitting him?”

“Well, yes, Ma’am.”

“Because of the high incidence of domestic violence in the armed forces or do you have any evidence?”

“Three times bruised after dates, although this is by far the worse Ma’am. He’d limping Ma’am, badly. He always is, I don’t think his boyfriend is particularly gentle with him, but this is worse, far worse. He doesn’t look at all comfortable, to be frank.”

“Circumstantial, at best.”

“Dr. Hobson saw him punch James on their first date.”

“Silly boy. Still. What can we do? They never learn. If this starts to interfere with his work, let me know, okay. That’s an order, Lewis; don’t go covering for him like you did at Crevecoeur Hall and with the Phoenix killer. Oh, bollocks, they’re all connected, aren’t they? Don’t cover, Lewis, that’s an order. I can order him to get counselling, bring him to his senses.”

“Doubt that will help ma’am.”

“Oh, I know your views, Lewis.”

“Ma’am.” Lewis had been wondering whether to share his growing suspicion with his boss, or leave it. He had no evidence and he hated to think about it. There had been no victim last night, after all.

But James’ face was battered. And he was walking as if... No. It really wasn’t Lewis’ business.

Two days later, the Thursday, Ellis turned up at James’ flat, having spent the past two days sending dozens of texts full of ‘I’m so sorry baby’, ‘Please forgive me my baby boy’ and ‘I love you honey babe’. He’d not phoned or texted but was just sitting on the steps when James got home from work. He had more flowers – two dozen red roses this time. He instantly, gently, pulled James into an embrace, whispering sorry while kissing James’ bruises gently, saying sorry again and again.

James pulled away and unlocked the door without a word. Ellis followed him into the flat. He was dressed in green fatigues, beret tucked under an epaulet. James didn’t know what to do or say, so took the pro-offered roses and busied himself finding a big enough vase, or pint jar, he didn’t have a fancy vase bigger enough, keeping his back to Ellis.

“You do forgive me honey, say you forgive me. I never meant to hurt you my angel.”

James span round, glaring, losing his temper, not caring for the risk. “But you did! I’ve spent the last two days at work lying through my teeth being the butt of jokes and worried looks in equal measure. Do you think a lie convinces anyone when everyone in the office is a detective?”

“Babe, I’m sorry. But it’s none of their business, is it, your life? I am sorry. I am so sorry. Do you want me to go down on my knees and beg you to forgive me because honey babe, I will.” Ellis stood there, in the middle of the room, looking for all the world like a big, overgrown, shamefaced school boy.

James smiled, in spite of himself. “The flowers will suffice, Ellis. But you did hurt me, a lot. I still hurt. I don’t mean my face, either.”

“I’m so sorry baby,” Ellis repeated.

“What do you want Ellis?” James asked, sounding very tired. “You want sex, to fuck me, is that why you’re here? I can’t, it’ll hurt too much, but I can’t say no, can I?”

“Ee, James baby, I’m not going to hurt you. There are other things but you have issues, honey. I’m not here for sex, baby, although I’d never say no to you, huh? I’m here to apologize honey, and ask you out.”

“Ask me out? Haven’t you done that already?”

“You’re not going to dump me Jamesie, are you?”

“I should, but...”

“But what honey?” Ellis crossed the room and took James into his arms. James brought his arms up and held on to Ellis’ very broad back, leaning his head on Ellis’ shoulder. He sighed deeply as Ellis began to stroke his hair. “What baby?” he whispered.

“I think I must love you. I can’t imagine being without you, I need you, I...”

Ellis laughed happily. “I am so happy to hear you say that baby. I want to take you out for a meal. That Indian we went to first time, baby, the food was good. Can I? Will you?”

James nodded against Ellis’ shoulder. “Do you want me to change?”

“Honey, you look perfect to me, but if you want to get out of your work things –” he glanced down, “- unlike me.”

“What do you want Ellis?” James sounded tired as he spoke.

“Baby, put on those skinny jeans and put the glitter in your hair, coz baby, you were so sexy with your hair up and sparkly. And that purple tee shirt you were rowing in, that was so tight baby.”

As James followed Ellis following the waiter through the restaurant he was aware of the odd glance in his direction, a frown or two at pink glitter sprayed in his hair with matching pink glitter eye shadow, applied much more thickly and obviously than he would normally. He then noticed Innocent sat in a corner table, dressed up to the nines in a very tight and low cut pink satin number, very short skirt and also wearing far more make up than usual. He wanted to die, there and then, of embarrassment, and if he’d felt more comfortable with Ellis he would have pleaded with him to go. Then Innocent’s date turned and looked right at him. Dr. Laura Hobson. She winked at him secretly, putting a finger to her lips. Now he was just confused!

Ellis talked incessantly, about nothing mostly, about his favourite subject: Ellis. However, unlike last time he kept his hands to himself apart from a little gentlemanly hand holding and kissing of James’ fingers. James was acutely aware of Hobson watching him. He tried not to watch her, on her... date? With their boss? With a married woman? Why had he spent years seeing Laura as a threat?

Innocent had not noticed James all evening and Laura had not pointed him out. However, as they left, she noticed a young man that reminded her of Hathaway, except this young man had his hair gelled up rather than smoothed down and had sprayed it with glitter. She peered surreptitiously. It was James Hathaway. He was with am equally tall, but well built and rather aggressive looking African in army fatigues, genuine fatigues, with insignia. James was pushing his food about his plate, looking rather cowed. She pointed them out to Laura.

“Is that Hathaway with his boyfriend?”

Laura looked. “Uh-huh.”

“Lewis is right, not a good sort. Why couldn’t they just...?”

“Get it together? God knows I’ve been pushing Robbie in James’ direction, dropping enough hints, for years!”

“Officially, of course, I shouldn’t counter such a relationship, but Robbie needs someone, and that boy fits the bill. I had originally thought of you Laura. But I don’t like to share!” Jean snorted, “All I’ve got now is an even more grumpy Inspector.”

“Tell me about it!” laughed Laura, holding the door open for Jean.

James watched the Chief Superintendent and the pathologist leave, feeling just as confused as before. Maybe he was having ‘A Little Britain’ moment, as in ‘the only gay in the village’? He snorted. Oh, if only that were true, but three uniformed officers and his old boss had made passes at him long before Lewis had returned from the Caribbean. He snorted again, this time more despair than humour. Ellis looked at him.

“Are you okay baby?” He called a waiter over. “Could I have the bill, and the rest of this to go?” he asked, back in his Winchester and Sandhurst voice, one that demanded immediate respect and obedience.

Back at James’ flat Ellis stored their take away left overs in James’ fridge.

“You eat this, you hear baby. I hate to see you not eating.” He came up to James and stood behind him, circling his arms around his waist. James involuntarily flinched. “Hey baby, no need to be scared,” he whispered in James’ ear. “I’m gonna take you to bed now, baby, and we’re gonna 69. I won’t hurt you and you’re not gonna remember being a little boy, alright? But first, honey, let’s shower together, eh?”

James did as he was told, and after wards fell asleep in Ellis’ arms, Ellis stroking his hair and telling him how much he was loved and how much he was beautiful. He’d hardly slept in two days.

He was awoken at around half past one in the morning, feeling Ellis’ hand slide over his hip and the flat of his stomach. He was awake properly as Ellis rolled him over.

“Wh- what are you doing?”

“I’ll be gentle, honey. I won’t see you for over a week, babes. I’m off to bloody Wiltshire on training manoeuvres.”

“N-no!”

“S’sh, sh’sh.” Ellis put one hand over his mouth.

“N-m’m,” James shook his head, but it was pointless. Why was Ellis doing this? Hadn’t earlier been enough for him, hadn’t that been fantastic enough?

After Ellis had finished he flipped James over again and kissed him deeply. “I’m so sorry baby, but I had to have my bitch before I go away. I love you, I just needed to remember the feel of you. Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry. You know I love you, eh? Come on, honey. I’ve got to go soon. Get up and make me a coffee before I go, I’ve got to drive us home and I am shattered.” Ellis kissed James one more time before getting up and starting to dress, pulling tags over his head and staring at James. “Coffee, honey, now. Do as you’re told.”

James stumbled out of bed, feeling once again dreadful. This time it was his back that ached. He tugged his grey pj bottoms out from under his pillow and pulled them, along with a vest top, on before he limped, awkwardly and painfully to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

After Ellis left James curled up on the sofa, finishing the pot of coffee and eating cold curry, trying to work out his feelings, why he forgave Ellis so quickly for Tuesday, why he forgave him again just now? On one level, it was simple, he’d just been raped twice in as many days, but on another level it wasn’t that simple, because it was rape and it wasn’t. He hadn’t consented fully, but he loved Ellis. Or so he thought. He didn’t what to lose him. It must be love, mustn’t it? He felt sick and empty at the thought of not seeing Ellis. Ellis was exciting, it was addictive, the rush and the buzz of being with Ellis. Would the sex be amazing or scary, lead to a massive orgasm or a huge pain, or both? Ellis made him feel alive, as if some part of him – his sexuality he supposed – had been dead and Ellis had revived it.

Was this love? At least Ellis said he loved him, and it was lovely to be noticed, to be pampered, to be told he was beautiful and loved. If Lewis had feelings for him at all they were paternal or just platonic. Lewis was probably as crush, a naive school boy crush, one that left his knees trembling if Lewis so much as accidentally brushed his arm with his fingers, one that quickened his pulse and made him blush at the thought of seeing him, spending the day with him. If he was honest with himself, though, he still thought of Lewis, even during sex. Was that adultery, he wondered? Can you cheat in your mind, like that? Pretending your boyfriend is someone else?

Knowing he wouldn’t sleep, James brushed his teeth and went to bed, taking a glass of water and a novel. He chose ‘Pride and Prejudice’, where love was simple and straightforward, although, he did idly wonder if homosexual love were possible, or just sex, in such times, and what did it make him, romantically identifying with the sisters, yet again, as if he were fourteen? All this acted as a wonderful distraction from his worries over his feelings for Ellis, and his treatment by Ellis; and, more darkly, his subconscious counted the hours and minutes from when Ellis left to when he got a call to attend another victim of this so called ripper.

However, the call to attend another murder didn’t come soon enough to stop his mind from torturing himself with over analysis. After an hour or so of curled up, reading Austin with all hope of sleep that night fled, never questioning why once again he was identifying with the heroines, he found himself thinking about one real woman in particular, especially as he considered how he’d responded so quickly and unquestionably to Ellis’ demand that he got out of bed and made coffee. He so needed to speak to her now, that he even reached for his phone, but stopped himself at the last moment of dialling. It wasn’t just that it was too early, more the fact he couldn’t bear the disappointment in her voice, the disapproval in the silences; the knowledge she was afraid for him, afraid he would go to hell and that she was blaming his father, and herself. Maybe this was his father’s fault, only God knew, but right now, he knew he could never blame her again for any of it.

Suddenly and vividly he remembered the first – and last! – time he had come to her defence. His father, over two hours late in from work had thrown his congealed food across the room and demanded a ‘proper tea’ and hit her across the face with the back of his hand. James, five years old, newly at school and only just begun piano lessons – and only piano lessons then – with his lordship, had been furious. Shaking with righteous anger and the need to protect furious. He had always, without thinking about it, been aware his father lost his temper and shouted and that his mother had bruises, but so far he had never witnessed anything.

Furious, outraged and desperate to protect his mother, angry little five years old James had picked up the frying pan from the draining board and attacked his father, coming to her defence.

His life had been simple up to that moment, a life centred on his mother and her stories, that she told constantly, as she cooked and cleaned and ironed for everyone on the estate, or so it seemed, James always in her wake, unless Lady Scarlett dragged him off to the nursery. She told not just the regular fairy tales, but Indian ones she’d learnt when she had nannied for a wealthy Indian family. Then, a few weeks before, everything had expanded to include school; opening up the amazing world of stories he could read himself, and stories about the past and the land and space and even numbers. Then there was the piano, the music, the way his fingers were learning to make beautiful sounds, and the stories his lordship told, so much better, violent and gory, compared to his mother’s or the ones in the school books; stories of heroes and heroines, gods and goddesses, monsters like one-eyed giants and three headed dogs. The Summerhouse had become a place of refuge from his father’s shouting and his mother’s tears.

He had been far too small to hurt his father, but his father could hurt him, and did so. He never defended his mother again as she forbade it. In the Summerhouse, the next day, when his lordship kissed him better, it had felt a kind thought. Strange, weird, but nice of him all the same. A year later, when there was something other than his lordship’s tongue in his mouth, he’d felt guilty and ashamed for being sick, for disappointing Augustus, because by then he’d learnt to love Augustus more than his father and had been desperate to please him. It had taken him years, decades maybe, to learnt that the physical abuse was by far the less deadly.

Where had that fierce, righteous, determined, bright, angry, clever boy gone, James wondered? Maybe there were shades of him at work, but alone, with himself? And now, with Ellis? He never expected to turn into his mother, but maybe that was what he was doing? Did she feel this gut-wrenching ache at the thought of her leaving his father? Was he the sun and moon to her?

Was Ellis that to him?

No. Ellis was like cigarettes and coffee and wine, he needed Ellis. But Lewis shone like the sun. If he didn’t have work, the thought of Lewis every day, he couldn’t go on anymore. Not since opening that cistern to a mutilated corpse of a young girl, so much younger than these victims, and they were devastating enough. With an adult, you could find some distance, but this...?

He was still curled up on his bed reading when he got the call, two hours and forty-six minutes after Ellis had left. He attended just as he was, without showering, pulling on yesterdays’ suit, shirt and tie, with mud, glitter and blood and all. Not only that, unshaven and with panda eyes from smudged mascara and eye shadow, his unbrushed hair sticking up and clumped together with pink glitter hair spray. And he had never, ever been so relieved in his life to hear Hobson say this latest victim, one Rachel Conroy, aged 16, had been lying long dead in the bushes of Bury Knowle Park.

“So, certainly dead before two am, then?” he pushed.

“Certainly, James. At least six hours, I said. It’s just gone five now. I would have thought your maths were better than that.”

“What about six o’clock? Could she have been killed before then?”

“I’m not so certain about that, but unlikely.”

“It was still light then, James, and very likely full of kids on the swings and that,” Lewis added. “Go talk to that poor dog walker who found her, will you. Take her details, and statement if she’s up to it.”

“Sir.” James walked off to where the woman sat on a bench, surrounded by dogs, sipping cold tea from a polystyrene cup.

“What’s got into him?” Hobson said, standing up and speaking into Lewis’ ear.

“He’s obviously making the same connections as I am, poor sod, and not liking them.”

“What? You’re speaking in tongues, Robbie. I meant, what’s with the mess?”

“Mess?”

“His smudged, smeared make-up, unbrushed hair, unwashed, actually, faintly smelly appearance.”

“Oh? Interrupted his date, I expect. I must speak to him, get him to go home and sort himself...” Lewis broke off, thoughtful. Actually, Laura’s make-up was a little smudged, especially the lipstick, and surely her cardigan had been buttoned up the wrong way. He’d noticed that, hadn’t he, as she’d stepped hurriedly into her white suit. She had also arrived late, not as late as James, but late, and breathless. This Franco, perhaps? He hoped so, then he didn’t have to feel so guilty about leading her on before beginning to just moan endlessly about his concerns for James, his newly discovered, far too late, love for James.

“Robbie?”

“Just thinking. Another one. Hell. Blast this bastard to hell. Let’s hope he’s been bloody careless and left us a bit of something for forensics!” He looked over at John, who shook his head. “Damn! James!”

“Sir?”

“Go bloody home and wash will you man. And don’t come to work like that again, I don’t care about your boyfriend, I don’t want to know, but it doesn’t interfere with work, okay?”

“Sir.” James’ bottom lip wobbled a bit, and everyone at the scene turned to stare.

“Go home. Now. Be ready for me in an hour. We’ll go and see her family, together.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Robbie, that was uncalled for.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll apologise later.” But to Hobson, he didn’t sound the least bit sorry, just fed up and tired.


	6. Chapter 6

The family were weird, Hathaway decided, although he did feel a horrible sympathy for them. When he and Lewis arrived uniform had already informed them. Mrs. Conroy had had to be sedated and was in bed. Her husband, John Conroy seemed to have sedated himself, having retreated so far inside himself he was numb. They had phoned the police an hour after she was due home, at seven, and the younger sister, Phoebe, was angry, shouting at Lewis and him, angry, that it had taken almost twelve hours to find her. They knew this ripper was about, why hadn’t they taken their phone call seriously. Rachel is – was! – only sixteen but she was a little girl, so much younger than she, Phoebe, at fourteen. The other daughter, Naomi, was nineteen and helped the uniform officer make tea. They were waiting for Ruth, the eldest daughter, to arrive home from London, where she lived. No one had told her, only to get home.

All this wasn’t weird. What was weird was that they had no idea whether Rachel was coming home from cookery club or art club or the library. Lewis helpfully pointed out she had a bag full of things made from toilet rolls and cardboard in her bag and nearby a huge A3 watercolour poster of a rainforest had been found.

“Could be art club, could be helping out at the local primary after school club. She did that sometimes, she can never make her mind up if she’s going to be a celebrity chef or a pre-school teacher...” Phoebe broke of and finally started to cry. Numbly her father stood up and put his arms around his youngest daughter.

More weird was the fact that no one but working Naomi had a mobile – don’t believe in them, explained the father. Nor televisions, computers, electronica of any kind, apparently, apart from a radio, and that was an old transistor radio not a DAB.

Over the coming days Hathaway was to find the girls were odd loners, falling back on their own company. There was obviously no cyber history to chase and no real friends from school or any of the clubs Rachel attended. Hobson too, had nothing to add on this strange little girl. Again, no forensics to speak of. The girl had been a little plump – well, obese actually, ‘and no scarky comments Robbie’.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Laura,” Lewis had said from the back of the examination room. Hathaway had stood next to his boss, hugging himself, yet again the buzzing in his ears as Hobson dissected another young body, life cut short in such a brutal and terrifying way.

She had been pretty, thought Hathaway, not that justifies anything. Long dark hair in a pony tail, red t-shirt and jeans, no make up, a bit plump but developed. A typical teenager, really. The mother had seized on all the junk craft once forensics had finished with in, building a shrine and wailing how she would never again throw Rachel’s beautiful art away. She was now on anti depressants and signed off work for good. She had been a nurse. Hathaway couldn’t bear the empty, soulless eyes of the mother. You have three more daughters, he wanted to say, just as he wanted to hold her and make it alright. But how could he? How could they? Even if the caught the murderer tomorrow they couldn’t bring her back. Was Robbie Lewis this desolate, he wondered, did he have the same empty eyes, is that what drove his son and daughter away to the other side of the planet and some God awful northern city?

Needless to say there was nothing to connect Rachel to the other victims, nor could Hathaway or anyone else find her with a man on CCTV.

Hathaway didn’t see Ellis until the following Friday. For eight days he and Lewis had reviewed witness statements, chased the girls’ (and boy’s) internet activity and connections, re-interviewed family and friends, been scrutinized and criticized by 24 hour media, well, Lewis and Innocent, who made regular press briefings, reiterating that everyone must walk home with someone, always let people know where you are going, stressing that this warning applies to young men as well as women, as this man has attacked one young man as well as four girls. And for eight days Hathaway tried not to think about how Ellis was treating him. He tried telling himself to end it, to dump Ellis, but he missed him. Ellis left am empty hole that chewed up his insides and left him sleepless and lonely. Perhaps this was how Lewis felt when he lost his wife. Perhaps this was how he still felt? Hathaway wasn’t so preoccupied with himself that he could not notice that Lewis was pale, his hollows under his eyes deeper and darker. He no longer asked James out for a pint nor invited him over to watch TV or share a takeaway. He watched him across the office with sad, sympathetic eyes. He knows thought Hathaway. He knows I’m gay and he can’t handle it. He hates me now. He hardly touches me. I’m better off with someone – with Ellis – than to carry on with silly, childish, romantic dreams.

 

Nine days after Ellis’ one sided, selfish goodbye he arrived on James doorstep, later in the evening than previously. Again he was in his army uniform fatigues. He smiled his widest, most charming smile showing his white teeth with the gap between the front teeth that James loved so much, he like tracing his tongue over the gap when they kissed, when Ellis let him kiss back rather than posses his mouth so forcefully he bruised his lips.

“Hey honey babe? You weren’t expecting me then?” James was in baggy cargos and an equally baggy hoody. May had turned cold and wet, as if April and May had got bored and decided to swap weathers.

“You didn’t text me,” James pointed out.

“Well, surprise baby!” Ellis threw his arms open wide in an alarming camp way before he threw his arms around James in a bear hug. James put his arms around Ellis’ wide shoulders and hugged him back, burying his nose in Ellis’ neck and breathing in his scent. This was nice.

They broke apart to a cough. It was James’ neighbour from the top floor.

“Sorry boys,” she said and then turned around to the squeal of car tyres. “Oh,” the old lady said flatly as she watched the taxi accelerate away, leaving a pile of Tesco shopping bags on the kerb. James and Ellis bounded down the steps and picked up her shopping. “Thank you James. Er...” she peered at Ellis, “Captain.”

“Not a problem Mrs. Talbot,” James said and between them he and Ellis carried the shopping up three flights of stairs to the flat that once, and hundred years ago, would have been the servants flat. They insisted in carrying the bags through to her kitchen. On the way out Mrs. Talbot caught Ellis’ arm before he could follow James down the stairs to the basement.

“You look after that boy, he’s lovely. Don’t you break his heart Captain. I know what you army boys are, wasn’t I an army wife myself most of my life and with two boys in the army now.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it Auntie,” said Ellis in his best African voice.

“I *know*,” she hissed. “I watch you put it back on.”

“I will look after him,” Ellis said stiffly, public school tones reasserting themselves. He glared at her arm until she released it.

“I won’t tell him. I wouldn’t do that to him. I won’t hurt him,” Mrs Talbot said.

When Ellis arrived in the basement it was to find James already brewing coffee. Ellis came up and put his arms around James waist and held him tight, kissing the back of his neck.

“You were a long time,” he said neutrally.

“Yeah, the old lady wanted to tell me how lovely you are. But I already know that honey.”

“Do you want me to cook?”

“Maybe we could take a walk, get some chips, yeah? A week in a muddy field on rations, all I want is some lovely English chips. And it’s lovely outside, too, honey babe.”

“It’s freezing.”

“Cold, yeah babe, but sunny. Red and gold sunset baby. Romantic.” Ellis took the proffered coffee and sat down on the sofa. James followed and sat on the edge, nervous and excited. How would the night go?

“Okay.” James sipped his coffee and gazed at Ellis. He really was gorgeous.

“First baby, I have a present or two for you, my beautiful baby boy.” Ellis pulled some screwed up purple tissue paper from his pocket and handed it to James.

Cautiously James unwrapped the paper. Inside was more wrappings, soft black cloth. He looked questioning at Ellis. Ellis smiled and nodded. Slowly James unrolled the cloth. Inside were a pair of cuff links, gold square with a small diamond at one corner, and a chain made of three different colours of gold woven together.

“Gold from Ghana, baby. African diamonds. For you, to glitter at work too, honey. And gold to match your hair.”

James swallowed. It was too much. It was too expensive. What did it mean? “Thank you,” he said carefully. Ellis leapt up and took the necklace and put it on James, his fingers playing with the nape of James neck.

“Missed you so much baby. Will you play for me, please, eh honey?” he nodded to James’ guitar,

James smiled and nodded. Ellis watched, as all the stress and confusion and age melted away as James sat on the coffee table playing out African rhythms on his guitar, something of the World Music his band were currently rehearsing.

As Ellis wanted they walked to the Cowley Road and wandered up it from Circus Street holding hands, getting the odd curious glance from students and the occasional hostile one from local Asians. The stopped and bought chips from a kebab place and bottles of beer from Tescos and sat on swings in the little park next to Manzil Way. A group of Afro Caribbean teenagers started wolf whistles and chucking stones when they saw them kiss, but one step towards them from Ellis had them running away.

“Pity honey, you could have arrested them.”

They went back and fell on to James’ bed kissing. So far it had been a lovely evening that suddenly, terrifyingly, began to turn more than a little scary when Ellis told James he was going to tie him up.

“N-no, I don’t like it. You hurt me. Ellis, please...”

 

... Again he threw the condom on the floor. He released James and flipped him over, kissing him deeply before standing up and getting dressed. As he did so James reached out and pulled Ellis back to him by his tags, which Ellis hadn’t removed for once.

“Don’t. Go. Stay. Please.”

“Honey, I have to, I’ve got mates to take home. I have to be at work at six.”

“Please stay the night with me. Please. I want you to hold me. Please Ellis.”

“Sweetie. I have to go. You’re breaking my heart baby. I... just have to.”

All the while he dressed James stared at him with pleading puppy dog eyes. Ellis couldn’t believe his luck, James seemed so forgiving of him, and let him do what he wanted. All he seemed to asking for was a little kindness and attention in return.

“I can’t James. I can’t,” he repeated. “But I love you. And I’ll be back soon. Just don’t ring or text, honey. Promise.”

James nodded, tears in his eyes. He felt overwhelmed by emotions he didn’t understand.

With one sudden, quick, light kiss and a, “Bye honey. The necklace looks good on you. Wear the cuff links tomorrow, yeah!” Ellis was gone, leaving James in a sweaty bed. James wondering why he’d begged, why he was so desperate to be held when he was sore, confused and not sure why he didn’t finish with him, except that he seemed almost addicted to the excitement/fear/attention Ellis gave. He fell into an exhausted sleep, only to be awoken by the phone a few hours later.

 

It was another young male victim – younger than the last one and most definitely the same MO. Not caring what he looked like Hathaway pulled on his cargos, tee and a hoody and rushed straight to the scene, arriving for once before his boss or Hobson. Two uniformed officers were there and SOCO’s van was just pulling up as he ran across the Hinksey Park car park to the play park. One constable was standing over the body, the other sitting on a bench with the woman who had found him. She’s gone looking for him apparently. A middle aged woman in a long, tiered skirt ending with bells, a donkey jacket over a hand knit pullover and pink dreads, a dirty natural blond at the roots.

He was not that tall, maybe sixteen, in surf/skate clothes but with emo hair. A backpack lay beside him, along with three cans of spray paint and a half eaten Mars bar. He had been ‘decorating’, the slide come climbing frame pirate ship thing that dominated the play area of the park. Hathaway shuddered. They had to do something, find some clue. He looked down, taking an attitude of prayer, before he caught the officer, PC Andrews, staring at him. He was still allowed to have faith, wasn’t he? Was he bruised again? He didn’t think Ellis had hit him. Been selfish, but not violent. Not today.

He walked over to the witness, such as she was, as Hobson arrived and started unpacking. He heard Lewis arrive and go straight to Hobson and the body. He’d not even sat down, much less introduced himself when Hobson was screaming for an ambulance. The boy was alive. Lewis was roaring at uniform about not checking as Hathaway pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled, rushing back to the boy, followed by the woman who was wailing in what sounded like Hindi.

After the young survivor had been driven off to hospital and Hobson had gone with him, Lewis sent uniform home, allowed SOCOs all over the scene and told Hathaway to drive the woman back home or to the hospital, which ever she preferred.

On the edge of the Traveller site, apart from the more regular Roma and Irish, a group of New Age Travellers had moved in for the summer, although Middle Aged Travellers may have been more appropriate. Most were asleep, some sat around drinking and smoking.

“It’s okay. I don’t give a shit. I’m here to support you and get any info I can about that poor boy and anything that may catch the bastard who did this.” Hathaway added a silent prayer that he’d been so depressed he’d not bothered with his usual suit. He blended a bit here.

Her name was Amelia, and apparently she knew a woman who knew the boy’s friend’s mother. He was called Mouse and he lived in South London and had arrived with Finn, the son of a friend of a friend, and his girlfriend Dizzy a few nights ago. He’d never been to Oxford and had decided to stay. He lived mostly on the charity of the other campers and a bit of begging, she guessed, and yes, he probably should be in school. He’d spent his days at the Ashmolean or MoMA.

Hathaway made chamomile tea on the camp stove inside her ancient VW van while she sat outside smoking his cigarettes.

Slowly, the sky went from inky black to smoky to grey and pink as dawn rose with a wet whimper and even more slowly the crusties and hippies awoke and stumbled out of vans, caravans and tents. Women fetched water and started cooking and men rolled cigarettes and talked nothing. They all eyed Hathaway a little curiously, the unknown tall, blond young man in scruffily but expensive casual clothes and a sad aura.

“I don’t know anything. He didn’t come back and he always did. That’s his tent. Dizzy bought it for him. He’d got a dog, a little terrier. He’s still missing.”

“He’ll probably find his way back.”

“Hey, Emmy, what’s up?” asked a young man dressed in an approximation of medieval jester clothes and a scruffy beard.

Amelia burst into tears so Hathaway explained what had happened. People were shocked, upset, stoned/chilled out indifferent and hostile to a policeman in their camp in equal measure. Slowly Hathaway realised no one really knew him; every one knew he should have been in school and that his name was Mouse.

“But he can’t really be called Mouse,” Hathaway tried to argue. It suddenly crossed his mind Lewis just left it to him, dismissing everyone else and going home. Because the boy was what? Homeless? A New Age Traveller? A Crustie? Was Lewis prejudiced? Hathaway really didn’t want to think so.

Someone brought Hathaway a cup of proper tea with soya milk and a plate of beans, mushrooms and bread before fetching a second for Amelia.

“Don’t cry pet,” she said in a strong Geordie accent. “He survived. No one else did that. It’s a miracle. Come on, drink this.”

“How is it a miracle? He has to live with what that bastard did to him! Poor little Mouse!”

“It’s a bloody miracle alright,” said the ‘jester’. Hathaway recognised him now, he was often in Cornmarket on stilts juggling, fire if the police let him, entertaining the tourists. “How did he survive then?” Hathaway realised this was addressed to him.

“We don’t know. The attacker always seems to know what he’s doing. No one spotted it until our pathologist. Somehow the artery and vein were both missed and the cut not so deep. But he’s unconscious. The paramedic thought it maybe part psychological.”

“See! See!” Amelia cried, half hysterical. “He has to live with being raped! It’s hard when you’re a woman, God knows I know that, but to be male, to be a boy, and have that done to you it’s...” she continued but as she grew more hysterical no one could unpick what she said.

The woman who brought the food slapped her and the jester looked uncertainly at Hathaway.

“Give her some dope if you think it will help her. I remain doubtful but I don’t give a shit. Really. I just want to catch Mouse’s attacker. And you, Amelia, stop being so bloody sexist!”

Amelia looked at Hathaway, shocked. “I’m not.”

“Oh, so why think a male can’t cope with being raped when a female can. That’s bollocks. Everyone copes in his or her own way. What gives you the right to say Mouse would wish he’d have been killed? I know there is the phrase a fate worse than death and post rape trauma can make you feel bloody suicidal but pull yourself together. I’ll drive you over to the hospital soon and you can see him. He needs friends, not melodrama.”

“Look, you’ve no right to talk to Emmy like that?” the jester snapped.

“He’s right though,” his girlfriend countered.

“He can’t judge like that, just coz he’s a pig-policeman!”

“I have every bloody right. I was a lot fucking younger than Mouse when I was first raped and it’s never bloody stopped and I don’t wish I were dead!”

Everyone stared at him.

“Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have just said that,” Hathaway mumbled, looking down. “I’m just tired and fed up and...”

“Stoned on grass fumes, man,” another man offered. He had a long grey hair in a ponytail and a straggling beard and wore a vest top over striped jeans, a blanket wrapped over his shoulders. He looked about ninety, but was probably no more than sixty. He patted Hathaway’s knee. “Don’t worry about it boy. Just make sure it’s you who takes Mouse’s statement and looks after him, okay. Eat yer food and then take Emmy and Susie to the hospital, yeah?” he squeezed Hathaway’s knee. Hathaway looked down at his tanned, aged spotted hand on his knee. “Not everyone is out to hurt you boy.” The hand slid up his inner thigh. Everyone else made a show of not noticing.

“Maybe not,” Hathaway said carefully, “but my boyfriend, a captain in the army, is out to hurt anyone who touches me.”

The man, called, weirdly, Moondog, hurriedly removed his hand. Is that what Ellis is for? Wondered James. He terrifies me and keeps me safe. This guy is like a stinking, scruffy Mortmaigne and I’m not frozen with fear. Not now.

Mouse was in shock and sedated. He was not allowed to be interviewed for days.

Mouse fingerprints and DNA were on system. His real name was Martin Kavannagh and he was sixteen, in Y11, having absconded from his foster mother. The Met. knew him as a graffiti artist, well known for vandalism and also petty theft. His mother was a reformed addict who ran a support charity on their high-rise housing estate, a local charity for reformed addicts. It ran a centre and garden. However, she was currently in the US on fact finding mission paid for by lottery money to see how the scheme could be expanded all over London. Hathaway debated with Amelia and Susie and then with Lewis on the phone over whether she should be contacted or left in blissful ignorance considering he was currently in a drug induced coma. Hathaway wanted to inform, but following the women’s arguments he agreed readily when Lewis wanted to keep the poor mother in blissful ignorance. The boy had already been through enough trauma, half of his face disfigured with burn scars from childhood and a early childhood with his mother an addict.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally some progress and evidence, although it doesn't look good for James...

Lewis and Hathaway stood before Innocent in her office.

“So the boy – a bloody miracle ma’am, Martin, er...?”

“Kavannagh Sir.”

“Yeah, that’s it. He’s heavily sedated. Days until he can talk to us, maybe.”

“May I?”

Innocent and Lewis looked at Hathaway. “James?”

“May you what?” asked Lewis.

“Could I possibly see him first? We shouldn’t just go in there, as soon as we’re allowed, and demand a statement. I, um, er...”

“That’s a good idea James. I’m sure you’ll handle it sensitively. Any news on the family?” asked Innocent.

“Just a mother, currently in the States, a temporary foster mother, friend of the mother, and a social worker ma’am. James has had contact.”

“They’re happy to leave him where he is and keep the mother uninformed until he wakes and see what he wants. He is over sixteen, for all he should be in school. Oh, and apparently there was a dog, a white terrier called Lucky. Went everywhere with him. People at the site are looking out for him, but...”

“They think the dog may have defended Martin –”

“Mouse, Sir,” corrected Hathaway.

“Yeah. Well weird. They think the dog may have been killed.”

“He may have worried at the Ripper to make him miss the right place on the neck,” mused Innocent. “A brave little dog. Unfortunately, it’s not in our remit to investigate the disappearance or killing of a dog, however brave. Keep me informed gentlemen.”

 

“You alright James?” Lewis asked as they walked back to his office. It was the first time they were alone that day. There had been another press conference, then a staff meeting and now a summoning to Innocent’s office. He sighed and tried Laura’s suggestion.

“Why don’t you bring your boyfriend over one Friday? We could get a takeaway. I never see you, James, and well, I miss you.”

Hathaway stared, at a loss of what to say, stunned. “That’s very kind of you Sir, but I never really know when... that is to say, Ellis never quite knows when he can get time off until the day.”

“No problem, just call me when he gets to you. If you would like to.”

“I’m not sure Ellis... I think he would just like to see me and... It’s complicated Sir.”

“I can see that. Well, come round when you’re free. Or come out for a drink after work. We can talk.” Lewis looked at James’ stricken face. “Or not. Whatever.”

Hathaway went pink and looked down and mumbled, “I don’t think Ellis would like that. Excuse me, sir, I need a smoke,” and with that Hathaway ran to the stairs.

Lewis sighed as he watched Hathaway’s retreating back and shook his head sadly and carried on towards his office. He really didn’t know what to do to help the boy.

 

Ellis came round the following Monday evening. He was in a chilled out mood and insisted on taking James to the cinema, allowing James to choose – James chose the most recent Harry Potter – and pizza before taking him back to his flat and then having him on the sofa, for once very gently, before rushing off early. James snuggled on sofa with left over takeaway pizza and double choc chip ice cream and watched BBC4. He felt quite contented and loved for once, like he’d been spoiled. For once Ellis had left him feeling loved and cherished without the feeling of guilt and fear. A small part of him, however, felt cheated. He liked the rush of adventure. The day had been a, howbeit, cheaper version of their first date. No wine, no drugs, just pizza and coke. After a rather interesting documentary about the structure of the universe James surveyed the wreckage – the large Dominos pizza box, the empty two-litre bottle of Coke, the empty tub of Ben and Jerry’s and the used condom. He frowned; realising Ellis had left him still dopey after sex without eating any of it. He’d scoffed the lot. He got up, deluding himself he was disposing of the condom in the bathroom. He just happened to put his finger to the back of his throat and accidentally made himself violently sick.

Purged, he felt better and settled down to watch an interesting archaeology programme. He recognised the presenter from those murders of those student actors a few years back. Ellis loved him thin.

Half way through the programme his work phone rang. He swore blindly as he hung up after saying he was on his way. The ‘ripper’ had struck again. The same MO. Another young woman, the oldest victim so far, in her early twenties. A care worker on her way to work, found in the play park off Manzil Way off the Cowley Road. It was nearby and James’ car was in Kidlington, so he walked, dressed as he was in tight jeans, tight top and black jacket, purple glitter on eyelids and in his hair.

He arrived before Lewis, at the same time as Hobson.

“Oh God, I’m really beginning to hate this,” she said to him.

“I know what you mean doctor.” He stared down at the dead woman’s prone form. Hair so straight it had to be artificial, dressed in neat casual clothes, an overnight bag tossed over the fence. A uniformed woman handed it to him.

Innocent arrived next, giving James a curious but sternly disapproving look regards his lack of suit and his spike up hair, having promised the Chief Constable to start attending the victims. James curiously noted the awkwardness between his boss and Hobson. When Lewis arrived he suddenly looked so old to James. Old and stressed. He smelt of brandy. James wanted to take his boss in his arms and tell him it wasn’t his fault, they were doing all they could, but he knew he couldn’t, shouldn’t even have thoughts like that anymore. He could tell that the only thing preventing Lewis from swearing blindly was Innocent’s presence.

James summarised the situation for him. Another victim of the same perpetrator, a little older than previous victims. On her way to work. She worked at a care home, on the night shift, although she normally worked days. Just graduated from a college in London where she had studied journalism but had decided not to pursue that career. She had no family, except her former foster mother, with whom she lived. The care home where she now worked had been her home for the greater part of the life.

The following morning Lewis and Hathaway interviewed the foster mother over a cup of tea following the formal ID on the body. However, the woman was a writer and freelance journalist and it soon became hard to tell who was interviewing whom. Cam – short for Camilla – was aggressive, clearly blaming Lewis for Tracy’s death. If he had done his job then she would still be alive.

“We are doing everything we can, and more,” Hathaway repeated calmly, as he noticed his boss’ knuckles whiten. He told Lewis this over and over, and himself, in his head. Of course, they felt guilty, of course they did, and of course this bereaved woman needed someone to blame.

“She’s such a fighter, she’s come such a long way, when life gave her such a kick in the teeth at the start. I got a call from her mother, in LA, this morning. Like that bitch has a right to come to her funeral!” Cam broke down in floods of tears. Lewis produced his hanky. Hathaway fetched a glass of water and more tea. They stayed by her side for ages, until Lewis agreed to an exclusive interview just to stop the tears.

It appeared almost a week later, in the Sunday Observer. She had done a fair job, too. No misquotes or misrepresentations at all, clearly outlining the difficulties they were finding with the lack of forensics of finding the attacker on CCTV.

Hathaway left Lewis with Cam and went up to Mouse’s ward to get an update. He was awake, but on tranquillizers rather than sedatives. He appeared to have blotted the attack completely, and kept asking for his dog.

What could he do? Hours on CCTV, hours and hours, plus the paperwork on statements and interviews to try to find any connections at all, all to no avail. Hathaway drove to Hinskey Park and began to trace a dog’s movements. He stood in front of the climbing frame in the play park to a few curious stares from mothers, there with their toddlers in school time.

I’m a dog, he thought, my owner is attacked. What do I do? I bite him? Run away?

I bite him. But I’m tiny. I savage his ankles and he kicks me away.

Hathaway got down on his knees and crawled closer, looking under the play frame. Nothing. But, of course there was no dog. He turned his head and saw some low bushes towards one of the gates, shielding the toilets. He carried on crawling. He heard a pointed cough.

“I’m going to phone the police.”

“Oh.” It occurred to him that a man crawling around a children’s play area was more than a tad suspicious. He stood up and pulled his warrant card from his pocket. “Detective Sergeant Hathaway. Sorry to startle you. I’m investigating the ‘ripper’ case. I don’t suppose you – any of you,” the other mothers, grandmother and childminder had all come up to stand behind the woman who had threatened the police, “have seen a little white dog, a terrier cross, probably dirty, maybe injured, with a blue and white bandana...?”

The women all shook there heads, and began a cacophony of questions of why it was relevant, and was it connected to that young boy, and wasn’t it really sick that it was boys as well as girls and...

Hathaway felt an insistent tugging on his sleeve. He looked down. A small boy of perhaps three at the most looked up with startlingly big blue eyes and a thatch of unruly yellow curls.

“Sick doggie.” He pulled again. “Sick doggie.”

“Charlie! I’m sorry Sergeant, my son is always making up stories.”

“Sick doggie Mr. Policeman.” He took Hathaway’s hand and pulled, walking towards the toilets.

“He’s been saying for days...” Charlie’s mother petered out and just followed as her small son pulled the tall policeman towards some scrubland behind the toilet block.

“Oh God!” she gasped.

“Sick doggie there.”

“Thank you.”

He was breathing, but battered, with one back leg jutting out at a strange angle. He was hungry, dehydrated and in pain but alive. Hathaway took off his jacket and wrapped the dog up gently and walked back towards the car park.

“What are you going to do?”

“He’s an important witness,” Hathaway replied. “I’m going to take him to a vet, of course. He needs treatment. And yes, he belongs to the boy who survived.”

In absence of a forensic vet and Innocent’s refusal to provide funds, Hathaway took Lucky to the vet’s up the road from him and pleaded with Hobson to meet him there and paid the vet’s bill himself.

Hobson extracted a fragment of material from the dog’s teeth and took a cast of the boot print that mottled the dog’s skin on his flank. She scowled at Hathaway as she came out of the vet’s consulting room, leaving her to set the leg and attend the other injuries and apply a saline drip for dehydration.

“I’m not a bloody vet, James, nor a forensic scientist really. But I’ll analyse what I’ve got. It’s no different to a human body, I suppose. Clever boy, you. Bright thinking. Told Lewis?”

“Not yet. Things are awkward.”

“Well, dump that bastard and things won’t be.”

“He’s not a bastard!” James’ voice rose high with emotion.

Hobson just gave him a *look* and left. James sighed and rubbed at his eyes, which seemed to be leaking. A woman with a cat in a travel box stared at him.

Hathaway waited until Lucky was out of theatre and took a picture of him on his phone in his little basket, a drip lined into him front leg and a plaster on his back. Then he went shopping and then back to hospital.

Mouse was sitting up, staring into space, an unnoticed tray of food on his bed. He looked up blankly at Hathaway. His fringe flopped back and Hathaway saw the scarred, puckered skin on one side of the boy’s face.

“I’m DS Hathaway. You can call me James.” He produced his phone and showed the photo to Mouse without another word.

“Lucky. Emmy said he must be dead.”

“He’s alive. I put him in the vet’s down the road from me. I’ll visit every day until you can come out. I’ve got you something. Well, three things.”

“Don’t you want to ask me what happened?”

“No. No yet. You must get better. Stronger.”

“Are you the policeman Emmy told me about?”

“I have no idea. Probably.”

“She said he was raped at twelve.”

“Yes. That would be me. Here.” James put a carrier bag in front of Mouse. Mouse poked at it. “Open it, please.” Mouse did so, and pulled out a Mars Bar, which brought a small smile to his face. He opened it and took a big mouthful. He looked in the bag again and pulled out a book, a sketchbook and some oil pastels.

“I know you prefer a big, preferably illegal, canvas and spray paints, but pastels can be lovely. There’s some charcoal too. I was told you like to look at the paintings in the Ashmolean. I have another friend who does that. He recommended them. Give them a go in here.”

Mouse looked at the book. “I don’t go in for reading much.”

“You don’t need to. It’s Michelangelo. Just look at the pictures if you want. He liked big wall painting but he could do small. Look. See. Think about it. You can’t get to Art College unless you go to school. You could go here, stay at the camp, if you like.”

“Why are you doing this? Being nice?” Mouse scowled. “Is it because you want me to remember?”

James shrugged and smiled awkwardly. “I’m always nice,” he replied. “I’ll put the rest of the Mars Bars in your cupboard, shall I?”

Mouse shrugged, but he smiled back, equally awkwardly. “Thanks. Lucky likes Mars Bars too.”

“I don’t know if the vet will allow that, but I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Ellis was back round at James’ flat the very next day much earlier, James the previous day had promised to cook him a real English dish and he had a made shepherd’s pie. They watched TV and ate the food, Ellis liking James cooking better than school, where he last had had shepherd’s pie. He even asked James to write down the recipe. Relaxed and feeling quite safe following the previous lovely evening James teased Ellis a bit about not being able to cook. Ellis replied that no, he couldn’t, it was for his mum. Ellis also had another present for James, a beaded African bracelet. Ellis put it on his right wrist before leisurely beginning to undress James, kissing him tenderly, allowing James to kiss back and undress him.

They made it to the bedroom where again, for James, things began to move to quickly and grow more alarming by the minute. Ellis was very enthusiastic, wanting to introduce James to as many new positions as possible. James crashed out as soon as Ellis left, exhausted, satiated but in pain, his thighs, ankles, wrists and upper arms a purple and white spotted pattern of finger bruises, his lips red and swollen.

His work phone awakened him three hours later. This time a Brookes student, found at the top of South Parks. Her name was Lauren. She was 19, a US citizen.

Now the world news media arrived, camped in Kidlington’s car park and Innocent’s doorstep. She began to have uniformed protection day and night. Lewis had no such luxury and he was frequently chased by reporters with mics and cameras from his car to the Thames Valley HQ and various Oxford Police Stations as well as once to his block of flats before Innocent put a uniformed officer outside 24 hours a day, for the protection of the other residents. The Oxford Ripper story was now just running and running. It seemed every time one turned on a 24 hours news channel neatly coiffured, made up anchor people were twittering about it, interviewing ‘experts’ on psychology or detection. Lewis entered a permanently angry mood, angry with himself mostly for not being able to figure this out. James was just sickened by the bodies and desperate to somehow get his boss from his downward spiral of self-loathing at his ‘inadequacy’, his guilt and his despair. And to stop him drinking so much. James was very much aware that a ‘secret’ bottle of brandy had appeared in his boss’ drawer. This must have been what he was like when Val died, James thought. Over that week Ellis visited every night and James found that unless Ellis had had him, as hard and as violent as Ellis liked, he was finding it increasing difficult to sleep, every time he closed his eyes he was haunted by the memories of the young, broken, violated bodies.

Hobson came back to Lewis with the forensics on Lucky the dog. Hathaway hadn’t told him, so as he listened to Hobson explain he stared more and more at his sergeant, who grew uncomfortable under his gaze. After saying thank you Lewis hung up. Hathaway eyed him nervously, alarmed when his boss smiled slightly.

“I could kiss you James!”

“Sir?”

“You were bloody brilliant, man, and you didn’t tell me! Why?”

“Well, things are a bit...”

“Not from me, James. And this is work. I’m not judging you, or condemning you, just worried is all I am, pet. Although, these days you seem a little less...” distracted? thought Lewis. A little less bruised, a little less awkward, limping and sore in your walking and sitting. But then you could be getting used to it. I would never hurt you, he thought fiercely.

Hathaway interrupted his thoughts. “What did Hobson say Sir?”

“Boot print is a size 10 Army issue boot. Fabric poly cotton mix, green/khaki combat in colour.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh. Come on. Let’s interview this Mouse.”

 

“Hello, Mouse is it?” Lewis pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. Hathaway hovered behind him, drawing the curtains around the bed. “I’m Inspector Lewis. I expect you remember Sergeant Hathaway?”

“James? Yeah. You got me the Mars Bars and rescued Lucky. How is he?”

Hathaway produced his phone and showed Mouse some more pictures. “He’s fine.” James smiled. “He’s off the drip and eating and drinking normally.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I snuck in a couple of fun sized Mars Bars for him.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. He’s learning to hobble around on three legs, his one in the cast sticking out, but he’s fine. They are giving him painkillers and they’re happy to keep looking after him until you’re ready to come out.”

“Thank you. Are you here now to ask what happened Inspector?”

“If you feel up to it Mouse. I don’t want to rush you, but it is important. Two more girls have been killed while you’ve been in here.”

“Oh God! I was so bloody lucky, wasn’t I Inspector?”

“You can call me Robbie, if it’s easier.”

“It feels weird, policemen being nice, and James has been mega nice.”

“Well, you’ve committed no crime in Oxford, have you Mouse?” Lewis said.

“Actually, I was...”

“We at CID don’t give a flying fuck about graffiti or begging, Mouse, so don’t worry about anything you tell us, okay? Anything you can remember that will help us catch this bastard would be good.”

Hathaway stared at his boss, confused by his bad language. It seemed to put Mouse at ease, though. He added, “Anything, Mouse, anything at all. We don’t need to worry about a formal statement, order or details.”

“Well, yet, anyhow. We’ll need it all for the court when we catch him. Maybe a formal ID if you’re up to it by then.”

“Anything, yeah. Two more girls? Shit.” Mouse looked up. “Do you want to sit down James? You, like, look kinda awkward up there, yeah?”

Hathaway perched on the end of Mouse’s bed. Mouse looked at him as he spoke, ignoring the Inspector. “I was just tagging the slide and thinking of doing something big on the two tower things, you know, when Lucky started to bark. I looked round and I was going to leg it but he grabbed my arm. I thought he was police, but then I saw he wasn’t in uniform. Well, not police uniform.”

“What do you mean Mouse?” asked Lewis gently.

“He was a solider. I still thought he was a local, you know, neighbourhood watch, a bloke in combats, fancying himself hard, all fake army gear and tattoos and that. You get them around my estate at home. But I could tell, something in the haircut and the way he held himself, he was the real deal. His eyes, dark, dark brown, were so cold. I went cold coz I knew then he weren’t bothered by no spray art.” Mouse burying his face in his hands. “I’m really trying hard not to remember the rest. The counsellor, here, she visits me everyday, she says best not to try and...”

“It’s okay Mouse, it’s okay,” Hathaway soothed. “You’ve been brilliant.”

“What did he look like Mouse, that’s what we need, okay? Not what happened, we know that.”

“He was black, West Indian or maybe mixed race, and really tall, as tall as James, but well built, or tough and hard and... Oh God! It was horrible, the worst thing in my life, and that includes this, okay?” He gestured to his face.

“Thank you Mouse. I’ll be back with more pictures of Lucky and more Mars Bars, if that’s okay?”

“Is there nothing else...?” persisted Lewis

“He was older than James, younger than you and his accent, I didn’t recognise it. Manchester, Yorkshire? Something like that?”

“Thank you Mouse. Come on James.”

“Take care,” said James as he followed his boss, breathing a sigh of relief. Northern. Wrong voice. He ignored the little voice in his head, the one that said: African, public school, received pronunciation, London black British, Oxfordshire (imitating me!)...

 

Once outside, James lit a cigarette as they walked, side by side, back to Lewis’ car. He could sense the tension in his boss. He wasn’t at all surprised when Lewis just snapped.

“Damn and hell, man! You must have noticed the coincidence to your dates and the crimes! And now we have ID and forensics on a military man, a tall, black military man,” Lewis gave strong emphasis to his last statement, coldly.

“Not all dates!” James spat out. “Not every time! And Ellis does most definitely not have a northern accent!” he stopped walking and glared angrily, dropping his cigarette butt and grinding it to dust under his foot. “Ellis is an honourable man. He would never... How dare you!”

Lewis noticed James had balled his fists. He glared at him. “Sergeant.”

James relaxed his hands. “Sir.” He sighed. “But he is and honourable man. He would never...”

“Honourable. Huh!”

“It’s a coincidence, sir, it has to be. I can alibi him at least once, and it doesn’t always happen when Ellis is over...”

“No. Not the time he abused *you* James. Not that time.”

“Ellis does not abuse me!” James yelled, spinning around to face his boss, voice rising with emotion.

“James. Don’t be a fool. You’re not a fool, pet. He’s treating you bad, lad, and you deserve better, so much better.”

“It’s none of your business, is it, what I do on my own time? And what is this with calling me pet, you never used to? Some sort of homophobia? Treating me like I was female?”

“When do you ever hear me call a woman pet? Or love? Or anything else? I’m always bloody respectful. You hear me call anyone but Lyn pet? No! I’m doing it coz I care and I’m bloody worried for you, you stupid boy. He’s abusing you, admit it.”

By now both men were standing in the car park in front of the Woman’s Centre and the bus stops, shouting at each other, Lewis' Geordie accent thickening with stress. They got more than a few curious glances.

“Where is your evidence then sir? Because I dispute it strongly.”

“Oh yeah. Bruises on the face.” Lewis began to tick of what he’d noticed on his fingers. “Walking awkwardly as if more bruises. Walking and sitting as if, sergeant, your boyfriend has had you so hard you are in pain. If you’re in pain, lad, he’s not doing it right. Big bags under your eyes. Eyes rimmed red with crying. Lying. Do you think no one in *CID* can tell the difference from bruises from a bash following a fall and two punches?”

James stared a few moments, red eyed. He rubbed at his eyes, smudging mascara. “Circumstantial, “ he said quietly. “You have no idea. How do you know if I’m consenting or not?”

Lewis sighed, and rubbed his eye. Consent isn’t the issue, he thought. You may be consenting, but it doesn’t make it right to be hurt so badly. You have nothing else but your childhood to compare this to, do you? Oh God, James, wake up and understand. He sighed again, and bit back the phrase ‘no one consents to being punched in the face’ and instead said, “I’m sorry James, you’re right, no one knows what goes on inside a relationship. And I am pleased for you, when I think back to how you denied yourself, hated yourself, lied to yourself. Forgive me. Please.” He reached out and touched James’ arm. It was the first time he’d touched him in weeks. It felt electric. James shivered under his touch.

“Yes. Of course, Sir. And I appreciate your concern. Really. I do. But I’m fine. We’re fine. Ellis is nice. He’s treating me fine.”

Lewis pretended not to notice how all this was spat out between his teeth, his tense, stoic face reminiscent of all the lies he told him over Will McEwan and his sexuality, all the evasions and omissions at Crevecoeur Hall.


	8. A jolly decent witness

James stared at his reflection, fiddling with his hair, gel and mousse by his side. Up or down? Ellis loved it when he spiked his hair up, even without the tacky, camp glitter spray from Claire’s, but as a rule, at a gig, James wore his hair as he did to work: smooth and neat, often with a side parting.

Ellis was driving him to the gig and staying to listen. That made it a date, didn’t it? So he should dress for Ellis.

This was a gig. His band was Christian. He normally didn’t even bother with mascara, much less styling his hair. This particular gig was in a church, not even a church hall, a Norman church in Worminghall, a smallish village towards Thame and Bicester.

In the end, he settled on discreet brown mascara and clear lip-gloss and leaving his hair as it had been for work that day. He pulled on his new favourite tee – black, baggy, with a stylised, almost, Celtic tree design. Or Nordic, maybe? The Tree of Life? It was by Nomad, he’d bought it at a Fair Trade stall at his church fete.

Ellis arrived early, in khaki, in a state. He went straight to the fridge and helped himself to a bottle of beer.

“Ellis, you’re driving.”

“Don’t go all filth on me, bitch!”

“I wasn’t I...” Was he? “Okay, I am a policeman Ellis, and I don’t want you pulled over. I don’t want you losing your licence. But it’s a foul evening outside, you need your wits about you.”

“I know its pissing it down. I’ve driven in it!” Ellis snapped and turned to stare at James, eyes cold, black and dark.

“Ellis, what’s wrong? Please tell me, I’ll do anything to...”

Ellis grabbed James by the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss, which he broke with a noise that sounded frighteningly, to James, like a sob. He hugged James and held him tightly, burying his face in James’ shoulder. James, bemused and confused, and more than a little scared, hugged back, stroking Ellis’ hair and rubbing his back, making little soothing noises.

“It’s Andy,” Ellis mumbled. “Got a call, just as I was leaving work. Bastard infection in his legs, just where they amputated. He’s in theatre, they’re going to have to amputate again. Shit man! Why? He was learning to use the artificial legs. He’ll have to learn again!” Ellis broke away and punched the wall. “If they can fit them that high up!”

James had no idea. “Ellis, tell me what...”

Ellis visibly shuddered, as if shaking off his stress. He forced a smile. “I’m starved. Makes us a sandwich or something, honey. And some of your lovely coffee.”

James made Ellis a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich and coffee. He had nothing himself, he rarely ate before a gig.

Just before they left, while James was in the bathroom, Ellis got a call. James heard the ring tone and the next thing he heard was Ellis let out an anguished roar. He rushed back to his living room to see Ellis kick his coffee table over, having already pushed over the sofa. Ellis picked up a breakfast bar stool and threw it at the up turned sofa, swearing blindly as he did so, loudly, aggressively, like a trooper; which he was, James supposed. Filled with love and pity and fear for his boyfriend, he was also a little afraid of him like this, but he squashed that down and took a step towards him.

“Ellis?”

“Honey! Get out of here! Get the fuck away from me!”

“I can’t leave you...”

“I don’t want to hurt you baby!” Ellis yelled.

“You won’t!” James screamed back. “You won’t! Tell me what’s wrong. Please Ellis, please darling tell me what’s wrong!” He took a few steps towards Ellis, nervous, but all the same desperate to provide some comfort.

“He’s dead! He died on the operating table!” Ellis broke down into anguished sobs. Embarrassed, he hid his face from James.

“Oh God!” This was the boy who was nineteen, the one who had survived. James took the last few steps and tried to touch Ellis. He flinched at the touch. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything to make it better. Just tell me. You can fuck me, hit me, anything. Just tell me how to make you better! Ellis! Please!”

Without a word Ellis reached out and grabbed James’ wrist and wordlessly pulled him to the bedroom...

Afterwards, James struggled to stand and pull up his boxers and jeans, first wiping himself with the bottom of his tee shirt. Shaking, he pulled off his damp, stained tee and walking awkwardly and painfully over, rooted around in the bottom of his wardrobe for another, equally baggy, one. He found his old Run DMC one and hastily pulled it on and, limping, picked up his guitar and black jacket and followed Ellis to his living room.

 

Ellis dropped James by the side door to the vestry as they were running late, before parking his car and going in through the main church, following the clusters and couples of well heeled, expensively dressed, middle and old aged white people. He received more than a few curious stares: the tall black man in his army fatigues. Ellis was very used to this and as always he made a concerted effort to smile, to be effortlessly polite and well spoken with impeccable manners.

James played beautifully, of course. His face young, innocent and focused, lost in his own music, fingers plucking cords like he and his guitar were one. This was the James Ellis had seen over a year ago, when he’d returned from Iraq; at St. Peter’s and the Methodist church in the tiny village of Milton, before finally, days before his posting, at his own church. This was the image he’d carried back into another war zone, to Afghanistan: the beautiful, lonely boy and his guitar. Somehow Ellis couldn’t quite believe his luck, after two days of being back home, there he was, back at his church; how he had been able to charm this lonely, lovely boy, much less have him any way he wanted! James was so loving, so forgiving.

As Ellis watched, he noticed more. He noticed the awkward, stiff poise that had never used to be there; an awkwardness that told of pain, of discomfort, of bruises. Ellis felt guilty as he realised those painful marks were his marks, he left painful reminders all over his boy’s lovely white body. Yet, at the same time, despite the guilt, Ellis felt himself get turned on at the thought that his bitch could barely sit because of him. He’d make it up to him later, he decided, he’d be so gentle tonight.

After the band played, a shy, bumbling young vicar led the thanks and applause and reminded his congregation and visitors of the urgency of the crumbling spire and bell tower. He encouraged them to dig deeply into their pockets and invited them all to stay for cheese and wine, or coffee or tea and cake, whatever took their fancy.

James, when he joined Ellis, made a beeline for the cake, along with the wine. Ellis had noticed this already, his bitch’s over dependence on alcohol and cigarettes like a man hiding from problems or memories and his extreme fondness for cake, like a little boy desperately seeking comfort. Ellis could only imagine too well what James ran from, what he needed comfort for. He just chose other distractions. He was never going to be that helpless ever again. He smiled as James came up to him, mouthful of cake. Ellis took James’ guitar case from him and brushed a cake crumb from the corner of his mouth, loving the pointed, shocked stares they suddenly got. Dave, the bandleader, for want of a better word, grinned under his shaggy, hippy beard across the room.

James was so twitchy by the time they left, the rain so unrelentless, pouring from the skies as if God was scooping handfuls of ocean and just dropping them on Oxfordshire, Ellis generously allowed James to smoke in the car, despite his fierce no smoking in my car policy. While James did so, Ellis checked his voice mails and messages. He had twenty-five, nineteen of them from Steve, moaning about the weather, at how soaked he was, and finally demanding they leave early because he was injured. Ellis made a scoffing noise. James looked curiously.

“Such a baby, that one.”

Five more were from the other two of his passengers, concerned about the weather and getting home before the roads were closed due to flash floods. The last message called him back home, immediately. There were two small reasons that could take Ellis away from James before he absolutely had to, and this was one of them. His team mates were lucky. He texted a reply to say he’d be an hour and then send one to the three friends, telling them to be at the usual place in half an hour, and if they weren’t there he was going without them.

Ellis drove as fast as he could through the narrow lanes in the pouring rain, skidding several times and alarming James.

“Stop your squealing bitch!” Ellis snapped, harsher than he intended. “I’ve driven far bigger, heavier vehicles than this is far worse conditions.”

James’ body language and his facial expression and eyes went impassive, inscrutable, unreadable. The kind of calm exterior that either drove Ellis wild with desire or anger. Tonight, however, he had one small problem on his mind that pushed all other matters aside.

He dropped James off on the pavement outside his house, and with a quick, anguished kiss he handed James his guitar from the boot, slammed down the hatchback and got in the driver’s seat, screeching off into the night: up the Iffley Road, over Donnington Bridge and up the Abingdon Road.

The guys were waiting for him over at the bus terminus, inside, in the dry. Charlie was thumping the food machine, swearing at it for eating his money and not giving him his Snickers Bar. Jonno, or Dr. Jalil Khan, the young medic who was joining his team, however, was busy with Steve’s hand and arm. He was dripping blood through a ripped and torn army sleeve, Jonno mopping at it with napkins stolen from a coffee bar, dumping them in the bin. They were landing on a pair of white latex gloves, but Jonno obviously wasn’t bothering with them. Ellis paid them no heed.

“What the fuck happened to you mate?” he demanded.

“Bastard mad dog attacked me,” Steve explained.

“Oi! Charlie!” Ellis shouted at Charlie, now kicking the chocolate machine. “Get your sorry white arse over here. We’re leaving. I’m in a hurry.”

“What’s up?” asked Jonno, tying a makeshift bandage on to Steve.

 

James had got up the steps to his front door when he heard the squeal of car tyres. It was Lewis’ car, skidding to a sudden halt level with him. The passenger door opened and Lewis, leaning over the passenger seat, called out,

“Get in. We have another survivor.”

Lewis drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while James placed his guitar carefully on the back seat. As soon as James was buckled in Lewis accelerated into the night.

“Where are we going Sir?”

“Wolvecote.”

 

It turned out that the large, rambling country cottage, once probably a farm house, was out of Wolvecote, almost into Wytham. They were met at the door by a flustered woman in her late forties.

“Inspector. So good of you to come. I can’t believe George would – well, yes, I can, actually. Come through. I have my niece and nephew staying; they’re with George now. Of course, my poor sister-in-law... Poor Julian!” She swallowed a sob with a hand to her mouth, briefly, before visibly lifting her chin slightly in a very old fashioned gesture of control and composure.

A man emerged from the door at the end of the corridor. “Frances!” How can I be expected to write my paper with all this coming and going?”

“Quentin, dear. This is the Inspector and his sergeant from Thames Valley CID. You spoke to Inspector Lewis yourself, remember? About George’s little adventure.”

“George is always having adventures!”

“Not any more. And never like this!” Frances composure broke. Her husband put an awkward arm around his wife’s shoulder.

“There, there my dear. You mustn’t upset yourself. Perhaps the policemen would like a cup of coffee. Or tea? H’m?” He looked at Lewis with slightly mad, befuddled deep blue eyes, his grey hair sticking up on end. He really did look like the stereotypical scientist of the adventure books of Lewis’ youth. He had recently moved from Dorset, where for years he had freelanced research physics and its commercial applications. Balliol had offered him a fellowship.

“Coffee would be lovely,” Lewis said, mindful of Hathaway’s preferences.

The woman beetled off to the kitchen and the man showed them into a rambling, large, disorganized lounge, a mixture of antique and Ikea furniture, papers, books, memory sticks, CD-roms, a laptop and an ipad strewn everywhere.

“I... I must get back to my research. I’ll leave you in Richard and Anne’s capable hands!” he scurried away.

A teenage boy of perhaps sixteen or seventeen, dressed in neatly pressed jeans and green shirt, tucked in, stood as Lewis and Hathaway entered the room. He had neatly pressed dark hair, in a side parting, and a neatly pressed aura, to match his jeans. Beside him sat a girl of about fifteen, with beautiful, long coiffured hair in golden waves held neatly back by an Alice band, dressed in a neat pink mini dress, her perfectly manicured, pink varnished hands demurely folded in her lap.

“Come in and sit down Inspector,” said Richard. “Sergeant Hathaway. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but it really isn’t a pleasure to see you again.”

Lewis looked to Hathaway for clarification. “Sir, this is Richard and Anne Kirran, Julian’s brother and sister. They supported their parents over the formal ID. And I don’t take it the wrong way Richard. I entirely understand.” Hathaway sat on the armchair. For want of somewhere else to sit, the boy and girl on one sofa and the dark shape of another boy, this George presumably, hugging a huge shaggy mongrel of a dog on the other sofa, Lewis perched on the arm of Hathaway’s chair. He accidentally touched his arm and shoulder, feeling James shudder under his touch. How could he get James away from Ellis? He’d noticed yet again how uncomfortable James was. Still. He mustn’t be distracted.

“Right. Professor Kirran told me George was attacked and thinks it was the Oxford ripper, is that right?” began Lewis.

“George?” prompted Anne.

Snuffles were heard from somewhere in the dog’s fur.

“Please George, anything you can tell us,” pleaded Hathaway.

The boy looked up, he had startlingly blue eyes like his father, odd with such dark hair, rather like his own, Lewis thought. The boy was dressed entirely in surf/skate clothes. He pulled off a grey beanie to reveal a brutally short, old-fashioned masculine short back and sides, unruly tight curls on the top of his head. He shifted a little away from the dog to reveal a surprising... shape. He wasn’t a he at all.

Hathaway raised an eyebrow slightly. This cross-dressing went way beyond teenage rebellion or childish tomboyish behaviour.

“Georgina Kirran is it? Or Georgia?” Lewis clarified.

George stared at him with naked hatred.

“No Sir,” corrected Hathaway. “It’s definitely George, isn’t it?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” s/he muttered numbly.

“Must have been a shock, being grabbed like that. Your father said, Binsey way?” began Lewis.

“If it hadn’t been for my dog,” s/he muttered, before smiling, quite altering her face. “Timmy save me!” She hugged her dog tightly again, burying her face once more in his fur. “Shame he couldn’t have saved old Julian too,” she mumbled.

“We know George,” supplied Anne, wiping her own tears away with a lace edged hanky.

“I know this is an incredibly difficult time for your family,” Lewis said sympathetically, “and I realise that this must be doubly difficult for you, George. But please, if you can talk through what happened. Anything that you observed or noticed could be crucial in finding your cousin’s killer. Sergeant Hathaway tells me you all have been very helpful to the police in the past, when you were younger.”

“Before GCSEs got in the way,” Richard said dryly. “Do buck up, you two. Chin up, Anne, Julian wouldn’t want you blubbing like this, and George, I’m ashamed of you, crying like a total girly girl. Like Anne.”

Anne pulled an offended face and huffed.

“I can assure you, boys do cry, especially after being attacked like this,” Hathaway came to George’s defence.

She looked at him gratefully. “I didn’t... he didn’t actually... Timmy saved me! He made quite a mess of his arm, actually. We saw blood, didn’t we Timmy?”

“James, get on to A and E and any walk-in clinics, check for dog bites.”

“On to it right away Sir.” Hathaway stood and walked out to the hall, calling back to get some DCs on to it straight away.

Lewis sat in the chair properly and leaned forward sympathetically.

“Let’s take it from the beginning, shall we George? In the first place, what were you doing so far from home, late in the evening, in the pouring rain?”

“I wanted to think. I miss Julian dreadfully, and father has been so horrid since... he grounded me and insisted Timmy be put in the kennel outside. He said they were bothering my aunt and uncle! As if! They’ve gone now, but still father... Poor auntie, she’s so...”

“So you snuck out and took Timmy for a walk?” Lewis clarified.

“Yes, Inspector.”

Just then, Hathaway returned to the living room bearing a tray of coffees, a milk jug, a sugar bowl and a huge fruitcake, cut in large slabs. He’d met Frances Kirran outside the kitchen door and offered to carry it. The parents, oddly, seemed to prefer leaving two seventeen years old and a sixteen years old to deal with the police alone. Grief does strange things to people, he mused.

Anne fussed, offering sugar and milk, placing pieces of cake on to plates, at once the perfect high society hostess. Lewis ate two slices, Richard three, Hathaway picked at his and Timmy finished the cake, a reward for being such a hero.

Fortified with hot coffee, George told her story.

“We struck up the lane to the Trout and sneaked across their private bridge on to the meadow. We were going to go across to Jericho, and... Well, Inspector, to tell the truth, I was going hunting. I know I’m not the real thing, but I do look awfully like a boy. I do try so damn hard to.”

Lewis looked at her rather blankly and glanced at Hathaway, who shrugged.

“Girls who are boys, boys who are girls,” Lewis muttered. “My sergeant has a secret fondness for pink glitter and a not so secret one for make-up. Your point being George?”

“Surely you have noticed, Inspector? Sergeant? There were two girls, then Julian, two more girls, then this poor boy in the newspaper, the one in hospital, and then two more girls, so I thought...”

“Oh George!” cried Anne, horrified.

“George! How can you be such an ass! This is not like when we were children. You could have been killed, too. Worse first. How selfish of you, and how damn like you! You bloody idiot George, you really, truly are!” exploded Richard.

“I do know!” snapped George. “Half way across Port Meadow I changed my mind and went off towards Binsey, meaning to walk a big circle home when he attacked me. After I had given up!”

“That’s just so typical!” squealed Anne.

George looked directly at the two police officers, looking Lewis, on her father’s chair, directly in the eye with her forthright blue ones. Hathaway was now sitting on the floor in front of his boss, his long legs curled up. George couldn’t help herself, she did rather like the look of Sergeant Hathaway.

“He grabbed me from behind. He wore white rubber gloves and put one hand over my mouth. In the other hand he carried a flick knife, which he opened in a threatening manner. That was when Timmy went for him. He did rather savage the man’s right arm. I ran, of course, as soon as he released me, but not before I had a good look at him.” George paused to take a sip of her coffee. Inspector and sergeant stared at her, expectant. She glanced at the rather nice sergeant before staring directly again at Inspector Lewis.

“He was tall, very tall, perhaps even taller than your sergeant. and well build, as if he worked out in a gym. And black, perhaps more mixed race. He wore proper army fatigues, with insignia of something. I couldn’t see which company, I’m sorry. It was raining and the light was very poor.”

Lewis sighed deeply. “Thank you,” he said, getting up, not daring to look at Hathaway, uncurling his long legs and climbing to his feet, his face a blank mask of inscrutability. “Thank you so much. Perhaps, tomorrow, you might come in and make a full statement. Ask for a DC Sophie Mercer, she’ll take it. Thank you again, you have been such a help George.” Lewis shook her hand, then nodding to Hathaway to follow him, led the way out.

 

“What do we make of the good Inspector and his sergeant, then?” asked Richard of his sister and cousin, who sat scowling, hugging her dog, after the officers had left.

“Well, Sergeant Hathaway has been jolly decent to us, especially poor Mother, since Julian,” she hiccoughed back a little sob, “but I do think he’s awfully queer.”

“Shut up!” shouted George.

“Poor George, she finally fancies a chap only to find he’s gay,” said Richard sympathetically.

“You all think I’m gay!” George shouted. “Why do you think that? I want to be a boy, not a lesbian!”

“Oh George, you poor muddled old thing. I think fancying boys makes you gay,” said Anne sadly.

“I think the Inspector is a bit muddled in his thinking too,” said Richard carefully.

“Yes,” sighed Anne, “he did seem awfully fond of his sergeant. Oh!” Anne exploded, dabbing at her eyes with her lace handkerchief. “If only Julian were here, he’d have solved their case for them by now.”

They sat in miserable silence, Timmy’s aging grey muzzle on his whitening paws. George dragging him out in the rain had played havoc with his rheumatism. He felt that very soon he would have to leave his beloved George for good and join Julian.

 

As soon as they got into Lewis’ car Hathaway snapped,

“Ellis was with me, sir. At the time the girl says she was attacked. We were together, in Holton. I can alibi him, sir.”

“I never said anything sergeant.”

“But you were thinking it sir.”

“Two witnesses saw their attacker in army fatigues, James. We are going to have to contact all bases in the area.”

“Army and Air force bases in Oxfordshire. Well, that’s not going to take us long, is it?” James said dryly.

James also thought about the fact that Ellis always drove three other men into Oxford, but was scared of running this past Lewis without talking to Ellis first.


	9. Chapter 9

James didn’t see Ellis for ten days, as he was training again in Wiltshire. When he arrived at James flat it smelt wonderful, James having taken the afternoon off to go shopping for something special, having taken an African cookbook out of the library. James had also put on his tightest tee shirt and jeans, gelled up his hair and sprayed it with the glitter and over done the make-up. He picked James up by the waist and span him around.

“I’m so happy to see you honey boy. You look gorgeous, and your cooking smells gorgeous.” He put him down and to kiss him deeply, one of his most aggressive and possessive kisses. He sat on the sofa and James sat next to him, feeling nervous, picking at he skin around his thumb nail. Ellis kissed him again and, lying back, pulled James on top of him, to straddle him. “We’re going to do it like this tonight, honey. You gonna ride me?” Ellis laughed happily as James blushed. “Don’t tell, me you never have because I know that, baby. I love teaching you things. I’ve been thinking about your long legs all week baby. Come on, bedroom now. The food will keep...”

“Let me just turn down the...” James tried to pull away to get to the cooker.

Ellis went through to the bedroom, James turned the oven down low and switched off the rice. He went to follow Ellis when he spotted Ellis’ wallet, it must have fallen out of his pocket. He bent to pick it up and as he did so two photos fell out, one of two small children, about two and four, a girl with cornrows with yellow ribbons and a yellow dress with puff sleeves and the little boy, the younger, smiling with a wide gapped tooth smile exactly like Ellis’. James went cold all over as he looked at the other picture, which was of an African woman, looking quite stern and serious in a puff sleeve, squared necked floral dress with matching elaborately tied scarf head dress. Around her neck was a thick rope of twisted yellow gold and an ornate beaded necklace with a cross, also constructed of beads and a bracelet the twin of the one Ellis gave him. She was wearing a wedding ring. She also looked vaguely familiar.

“Baby? You coming or what?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Honey?” Ellis appeared at the doorway and saw what James had in his hands.

“What the fuck are you doing baby?” he said with an edge to his voice.

“You dropped this. I was just picking up the...” he flinched as Ellis strode towards him, snatching the photos and the wallet. “They fell out, I swear I wasn’t prying.”

“You’re a detective baby, so maybe I don’t believe you.”

“Who – who are they?”

Ellis stared at James blankly. “None of your business, baby.”

“Are – are they yours? Are you married?”

“What? You think I’m not gay?”

“Well...”

“If I was a straight guy looking for a sick thrill do you think I would go down on you?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, but...”

“But the primitive African has to get married, right? Can’t be out and proud like a westerner?”

“Um..?”

“Grace, my... sister. Hope, my... niece, and Michael, my... nephew. Okay?”

James convinced himself he’d not heard the hesitation. “What are they like?”

Ellis smiled and talked about Hope and Michael with genuine love and pride. James listened, thinking again how there was nothing to be scared off, Ellis was a loving uncle and the moment had passed. He could breathe again, his heart rate slowed. Ellis wasn’t going to hit him. He ignored the fact that Ellis said nothing about Grace, his sister.

They went back into the bedroom and undressed.

Afterwards, lying in Ellis’ arms he was flattered by Ellis asking him for a photo for his wallet. James pulled on his jeans along with his tee shirt and went to see to the food while Ellis had a shower. He found a photo, a hard copy of one Lewis had taken of him on his phone when they were bored, staking out a suspect. It was a nice one, he was in a good suit and his favourite work tie and his eyes were shining, happy; happy at Lewis giving him his attention, he supposed. Was it possible to be in love with two people, or was Lewis a crush and Ellis the real thing? Or perhaps Lewis was the real thing and Ellis was some need, some lust, some...? What did it matter at the end of the day? Ellis was gay, in love with him and available and Lewis was straight and unobtainable. What mattered was making Ellis feel like there was something worth fighting for and something worth coming home for.

“Nice photo,” Ellis said, coming up to the breakfast bar in just a towel, looking fantastic, water shining on dark skinned hard muscle. On impulse James put his arms around him and licked a bead of water from Ellis’ shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for honey?”

“I have to ask you something.”

“What?” Ellis pulled away and sat up at the table.

“I should have told my boss a week ago but I wanted to talk to you first.”

“What are you on about honey? I think you’ve got your policeman voice on.”

“Well, yes. I know you always give a lift to some men from your base, and I know they are your team, your men, but...”

Dog bite. Always a victim when we come over, thought Ellis, knowing what was coming.

“Who are they? Is any of them behaving, you know, suspiciously, because...” James trailed off, he’d seen that look on Ellis, just before he’d attacked him, just after he’s said no to sex.

“My team are fine. Don’t you think if I had my suspicions I’d have gone to the MPs by now. Or your lot.”

“I don’t know! All I know is I’m with holding information from my boss and I could be compromising the investigation. He suspects you, you know? Especially now we have two witness that say they saw a possible black soldier.”

“I didn’t know that,” Ellis said. His voice was growing harder and he’d balled his fists.

“We’ve kept it out of the press. Imagine the racist vitriol from some of the tabloids?” James shuddered. “But I alibied you, Ellis, but I can actually only alibi you for one attack, which could have been a copy cat...” James voice was shaking as he forced himself to get through this. He never finished as Ellis’ fist connected with his face, his nose...

Ellis gave him one last vicious kick before walking away, swearing blindly, but this time at himself.

James sat up, feeling as if he’d been run over by a truck. At least he’d been kicked with bare feet and not army boots. He stood up and walked over to the sofa, where Ellis sat, head in hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, touching Ellis’ shoulder.

“No, I’m sorry honey,” Ellis looked up and James was startled to see tears in his eyes. “But they’re my team man. I know I’m probably a bit fucked up by what happened and I shouldn’t hurt you like that, even if you deserved a slap for suggesting –” James flinched “- that one of my team would be doing something so sick! Those poor, poor kids. I don’t know how you could...!” Ellis’ voice rose again and his fists were already balled, ready.

James pulled his tee shirt. “You’re right about one thing,” he said.

Ellis watched James as his pulled his tee shirt off slowly, seductively, anger disappearing. “What’s that honey?”

“I am your bitch,” James said, starting on his jeans. He hadn’t bothered to put his boxers back on.

“Oh yes you are baby,” Ellis smiled and lay back on the sofa.

Afterwards, Ellis pulled James down to him to kiss.

“Need another shower now baby.”

“Together then. I expect the food is ruined.”

Ellis gently stroked James bruised cheek. “I’m so sorry honey. You’re so good to me.”

“Promise me one thing, Ellis, please.”

“What honey?”

“Watch your men. If you have any doubts, call me, or take it to the MPs on the base. Please.”

Mixed race Steve, with the dog bite the day the kid got saved by her dog. It was all over the news the next day. The British loved canine heroes. Except theirs. You never saw a news story about a bomb disposal dog, and there were plenty of those. You didn’t grass on your teammates. First rule of the barracks, first survival rule in the field.

“Okay baby, whatever you want, but I’m sure they’re safe.”

James slept a fitful exhausted sleep, awoken by the phone at twenty to four in the morning.

“Tried you three times,” Lewis snapped.

“Oh, sorry sir, bit of a heavy night.”

“Don’t want to know James. Change of MO. We have two victims, both raped, both throats slit, but one tied up first, for God knows how long. Been out here a long time.”

“Where’s here sir?”

“Redbridge. The waste ground between the park and ride and the traveller site. Get out here now James. If you’re wasted then take a taxi. In fact, get a squad car to pick you up, I want you in my car. You still on the phone?”

“Yes sir.”

“Why? Get dressed man and get here. I’m sending a car for you now.”

When James arrived Lewis was fuming. He’d got uniform on to CCTV immediately, as a park and ride would have a good deal of quality images, and what he’d found was James boyfriend parked there. Not evidence as such. As James approached and walked into the light of the arch lights uniform had set up his anger hit the roof.

“What has the bastard done to you now? What is the bloody matter with you, my lad? Aren’t you worth more?”

“Lewis,” called Hobson.

“What man!?” he snapped.

“Something to show you.”

Lewis stomped over to Hobson and one of the bodies. She pointed. “Look as if I’m showing something.”

“What?”

“So no-one sees me give you the bollcking. You’re his superior officer, not his father. Don’t you dare belittle Hathaway like that. He struggles to maintain authority as it is.  
I know you’re worried and I know you care, but this is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’ve pushed him away and rejected him too much. Now, I’m not officially supposed to know about investigations that don’t involve bodies, but I know that bastard lord groomed him from five years old. Any stray abuser can push those buttons, can’t they? And Lewis, he thinks it’s love, so tread easily.”

“Every time that boyfriend of his is in Oxford, we get a victim.”

“Can James alibi?”

“Give me the precise times of each murder and I’ll see.”

“I’ll do my best, Robbie, but this is pathology not rocket science. There’s no precise formulae to get a time to a millisecond, and I can only approximate.”

 

The following morning Innocent and Lewis had to do yet another press conference. It was hard going, especially for Lewis. The latest victims had been a lesbian couple from Swindon; Susan Pevensey, a shop clerk for a designer shop and Violet Dream, 20 and an art student. Violet was raped and killed while Susan was tied and gagged, then she was raped and murdered an hour later. Someone must have seen them. They had come to Oxford for a gay night at a club and were returning to the park and ride and their car. Unfortunately they had parked in the far corner, out of CCTV camera range. They issued warnings for girls to go around in groups and to carry rape alarms. They said on live TV that would be giving then out in schools, colleges and places of work and shopping centres. Also, any young man was welcome to one if he wanted and also they advised young men also not to walk alone, as two of the victims had been young teenager males.

James, meanwhile, had returned to the task of trawling through CCTV, putting up with the stares at his face, some sympathetic, some curious, some amused. Lewis, after he returned from the press conference, spoke to him only through snarls. After he’d watched the press conference with James on the TV he sent James to fetch coffee and food, talking to him as if he were his personal slave not his sergeant, going into his office and slamming the door. Now he too received a few curious glances from the DCs.

“Stupid sod,” Hooper muttered to Davis, “why doesn’t the boss just snog the boy and have done with it?”

Davis grinned and shrugged.

As soon as James had returned with coffee and a ham and cheese roll Lewis shut the door, locked it and drew the blinds.

“Make a formal complaint. Charge the bastard.”

“What for? I was drunk. I fell up the steps going home and landed on my face.”

“Bollocks James. He hit you. Look at your pretty face. The bastard.”

“I was drunk. I fell. But it’s nice to know you think me pretty sir.”

“Well not at the moment James.”

“The bruises will go.”

“They’ll be back James. This new clumsiness of yours will stop when he’s posted to Afghanistan, won’t it? And when he’s back you’ll be falling over and walking into doors until one day that fist shaped door puts you in hospital.”

“I fell.”

“Fine. Have it your way. Tell me, honestly something else then.”

“What?”

“I want you to think back to every single date and what time he left you. Then we are going to match those times to Hobson’s estimates of time of death, minus half an hour to get from Iffley Road and find them.”

“No! Ellis didn’t do those... those...”

“Prove it to me James.”

“How can I remember all... I’ll try sir, but you can’t think that Ellis would...”

“This is what I know James. He’d a soldier, he’s trained to kill people. He beats his boyfriend, calls him a bitch and treats him like a sex object, a sex toy. That he’s raped you at least once from the way you were walking a few weeks back. He ties you up, I’ve seen the cuff bruising. Every attack coincides with him being here. So far I’ve kept this from Innocent, but if you don’t help me clear your boyfriend by cooperating a bit more, then so help me James, I’ll have to. You’ll be dismissed.”

“Maybe I don’t care! Spying on me, judging me! You shut up! Just shut up!” James had stood up and now he kicked his chair over. “My sex life is none of your business! Ellis is innocent, I’ve talked to him about it and –”

“Oh aye, gave you a slap did he?”

“You just shut up!”

“You are crossing the line sergeant. Pick up that chair, sit down and calm down.”

“No! Why should I? I’m fed up with all your snide comments and put downs, treating me as if I were half my age...”

“You shut up James.” Lewis picked up the chair. “ Now.” Lewis grabbed his shoulders and pushed him into the chair. James involuntarily winced as Lewis pushed on bruises. Lewis noticed. “How badly did he beat you?”

“I’m fine. Nothing happened,” James spat out through his teeth.

Lewis looked for a moment if he were to say something else and then turned his back, sighing furiously. He picked out the hard copy of the e-mail Hobson had sent him, her best estimates of the times of death, to within a half an hour each side. He turned back to face James who was still sitting, breathing hard. A little skin was showing through two buttons gapping on his normally white stomach, but all Lewis could see on the exposed skin was purple. He felt sick. He handed James the sheet of paper. James ignored it.

“Approx. times of each killing, give an hour before to be found, abducted and raped. Go home James, and when you come in the morning I want a statement from you, times your boyfriend left you. The truth, James, if you’re not sure, fine, but don’t lie. This isn’t covering up your mistakes or your childhood, this is serious, alright?”

James stared at the floor.

“Okay then?”

James snatched the sheet of paper and, glaring at Lewis and, grabbing his jacket, stormed out without a word.

He didn’t go home but to his nearest pub where he started drinking relentlessly. He was still there when his phone rang. He hoped it was Lewis, ringing to apologize for being such a judgemental, prying bastard, but it was Ellis.

“Hello?” he slurred.

“Where are you baby?”

“Uh? Oh, the Hobgoblin. What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock, near enough. I’m on your doorstep honey. I thought there must have been another body, especially since you didn’t answer the first three times I tried. I’ve been texting you too baby.”

“Oh? Didn’t hear. Sorry.”

“Are you drunk baby boy? Stay there, I’m coming down to you.”

In the three and a half hours James had been in the pub the blue skies had been covered with heavy grey masses, emptying their load in one huge wall of water. It had been tipping it down for some time, all the kerbs were high with water, it ran in rivers down Cowley and Iffley Roads, ponding on the Plain.

“Shit, raining,” James said stupidly as Ellis pulled him out of the pub, his arm around his shoulders.

“Come on babe,” Ellis guided James up Iffley towards his flat.

“I’ll get wet,” James complained childishly.

“Yes you will, baby. I’m soaked already. We’ll just have to take a hot bath together!”

A group of Middle Eastern language students huddled under an umbrella over heard Ellis and looked startled and shocked. They muttered a few choice homophobic phrases. Ellis turned back to stare at them, giving them the middle finger and a choice phrase picked up from American colleagues in Afghanistan. Now it was James turn to look startled and shocked. He remained silent though.

On the doorstep Ellis had left the flowers, drowned and battered now. As soon as they were in the flat he started stripping James, kissing him deeply, making him moan deeply, trying to ignore the bruises on the milk white skin, knowing they were there because of his own demon temper.

They had made it to the bedroom when Ellis’ phone rang. Surprised, he answered it.

“Charlie man? What you up to?

“No way man, that’s bad!

“No, take a fucking bus or train.

“What? Look here mate...

“The thing about my bitch...

“Ow! How did you guess?

“You don’t mind?

“Yeah, sure. My bitch’s a good cook. Bring some beer. I’ll text you directions.

“Laters.”

James stared, confused. “How many English accents do you speak?” he asked.

“Enough to fit it,” Ellis replied, returning to crisp public school tones with subtle African undertones, which James was beginning to suspect was his natural voice, it was his bedroom voice, certainly, and the one used when he’d lost his temper. “I invited my team mate over. Okay? It’s pissing with rain and the club he goes to is closed down.” He began to compose a text. “Get dressed honey. Something nice but not too queer, baby. Cook us something nice. Pasta or something.”

James got up, making a drunken childish strop of picking up his work clothes and Ellis’, pulling on tight jeans and baggy grey tee, sorting out his dripping hair and reapplying mascara before storming out to the living/kitchen room to tidy there. When Ellis joined him, dressed, he was slicing onions, which were making his eyes smart.

“Steve’s on his way too. He’s pissed off with this rain too. Okay?”

“What if it isn’t? What if it isn’t fucking okay? You could bloody ask?” James yelled. Ellis took a step towards him and he instinctively flinched, not even aware he was doing it. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“What’s the matter with you baby? I know I lost it big time yesterday, but you seemed fine when I left you.”

“My boss is pissed off with me. I think he hates me,” James voice broke, even the self-obsessed Ellis couldn’t mistake the heartbreak in that broken voice.

“So?” he shrugged, “He’s just your boss. Or are you jerking me around baby? All innocent when your boss is having you over his desk?”

“No!” James cried, horrified. “No. It’s just that, he’s... I...” James gave up. “Inspector Lewis is straight. He wouldn’t look at me, not ever!”

“Oh honey baby, you want him to, don’t you?” Ellis was beside him in a second, holding James tightly. “You have me now honey. I’ll here, now. I love you. You do know that, don’t you? I loved you when I first saw you, and that’s over a year ago. My... friend, even she noticed how much I wanted you. She didn’t like it very much.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“What? No. Big Christian African disapproval. Plus, she might be in love with me a bit. Not sure. Can’t really tell. Sometimes I think... doesn’t matter baby boy – she loves, he loves, he loves... Wow! I don’t do deep, honey. I’m gonna put the TV on, okay? You carry on with – Whatever. Just remember you’re feeding hungry young squaddies, baby.”

Charlie arrived first, bringing a six pack of lager with him. He and Ellis touched fists and high fived and Ellis found a sports channel. Charlie hardly gave James a glance. He was white and young, maybe mid to late twenties, with razored blond hair and hard grey eyes that softened politely, smiling with his eyes, as he said thank you to James handing him a towel to dry off. Speaking with a rolling, gentle West Country accent.

Steve was a different matter, tall, even taller than James and Ellis, a rich coffee colour to his skin, peppered with freckles and his short Afro curls were bizarrely ginger. He had a broad Lancashire accent and flipped channel as soon as he arrived, switching from rugby to cricket.

“Hey!” Charlie protested.

“Yeah, we were watching that!” Ellis said.

“Two to one, man,” Charlie said.

“Well, what about your fucking bitch, what’s she want?”

Ellis looked up at James, stirring vegetables, watching the pan for the pasta, his shoulders stiff and tense, silent and hurt.

“Don’t call my boyfriend a bitch,” Ellis said, a dangerous edge to his voice. “And he’s a he and he has a name.”

James let out a small, almost silent snort and tipped the pasta into the pan, back still to Ellis and his guests.

“What then? What’s he called?”

“James.”

“Okay. Oi! James! Cricket or rugby, man? It’s your flat.”

James carefully tipped in minutely measured herbs into his pasta sauce before thinking, did it matter? He hated both. Fortunately, he’d been rather good at both at school, which is why he’d played for the school teams. It had given him kudos and respect, and anything he was good at, in those days, he’d do as much as possible for the praise. Being good at sports kept the bullies away, because otherwise, the scholarship boy with no money who was the swot with the straight As might as well have a target painted on his back. Still, the luxury, normally, of no longer being a child...

What could he say? I don’t give a shit? He turned round to look at the men, Ellis sprawled on his sofa, Steve in his only chair, Charlie sitting on the floor very close to the TV screen.

“I think I want whatever Ellis wants.” He turned his back to watch the pasta and the sauce again, hearing the roar of approval at Ellis, telling him he was a doubly lucky guy.

Doubly? James avoided thinking, the thought sliding away.

They ate pasta and sauce with lots of cheese and drank huge amounts of beer, the expensive beer from his fridge that Lewis liked, the cheap lager Charlie had brought. James ate his perched at the breakfast bar, feeling uncomfortable. This kind of aggressive male camaraderie was something he’d never felt comfortable with, even if he’d liked the sense of belonging; not at school, not with his rowing eight, who always respected his lack of... something? The seminary had been difference, Hendon hell, but being in hell after being asked to leave the seminary had been somewhat the point. And if he hadn’t decided to join the police he’d have never met Lewis and his life wouldn’t have been bearable.

What was he thinking? He had given up on Lewis. He wasn’t even his friend, now, was he? He hated him.

He loaded the dishwasher, made coffee and then let Ellis take him to his bedroom. When they were naked and in bed, Ellis realised he had run out of condoms. James pointed they could do something else, not really wanting Ellis to leave him alone in the flat with two drunk squaddies, who might be tolerant to their commanding officer’s face but, but out of his sight he wasn’t so sure. Ellis insisted he wanted to ‘have his bitch properly’. James then pointed out, quite archly, he hadn’t always bothered but Ellis looked so sick with guilt James told him he was sorry, he didn’t mean to remind him, and began to kiss him frantically, little kisses all over Ellis’ face.

“Baby, wait, I won’t be long honey. You stay here, okay?” Ellis said grabbing the keys off the bedside table.

“Take my umbrella, it’s by the door,” James said, watching Ellis get dressed. “And get some more milk, it got used in the coffee,” James called as Ellis opened the bedroom door.

“Sure thing sweetie.”

On his way out he noticed that Charlie was crashed out on the sofa, snoring, surrounded by empty cans of lager. Steve was sitting on the floor in front of the TV swearing at it.

As soon as Ellis was out of the flat Steve got up and went into the bedroom, standing at the doorway, leering at James.

James pulled the quilt around himself. “What the fuck are you doing in my bedroom. Get out!”

Steve smiled and put his finger to his lips and grabbed the chair, wedging it under the door handle.

“What are you...?” James began, sitting up but he was silenced as Steve leapt on the bed, putting a flick knife to James’ throat. James noticed he was wearing latex gloves.

“Quietly,” Steve said before laughing manically. He pushed the knife into James’ flesh enough to draw blood. James gasped. “You’re going to do as I say, aren’t you?”

“Why?” James demanded defiantly.

“I have this knife, so what do you think?” He cut James’ on the shoulder before putting the knife back to his throat.

“I think you’re going to kill me anyway. I think you’re the Oxford ripper. Are you?”

“I’m just looking for a little fun. Turn over bitch.”

“No.”

Steve sliced the knife through James’ skin again, enough to maim, not to kill.

Silently, James pushed the quilt off himself and turned over, praying for Ellis to return quickly or for Charlie to wake up and realise what was happening.

Ellis didn’t get back quickly enough, and for once James was grateful to Mortmaigne, because in the Summerhouse he had learnt to switch off from his own body, to send his mind somewhere safe. It wasn’t so easy to do as an adult, but he tried, because every time he cried out in pain or fear Steve pushed the knife into his throat.

As clearly as if he was back in time, he remembered standing at the back of the morgue, Hobson telling Lewis,

“Well, I’m not 100% certain, but I would hazard a definite guess that more than half of these victims had their throats cut before the assailant had ejaculated.”

“You mean he carried on raping them, dead?” Lewis had clarified.

James remembered a definite buzzing in his ears, a sick feeling and a marvel at how detached Hobson and Lewis could be. In the car afterwards Lewis had told him, yet again, to grow a thicker skin.

I’m going to die, thought James numbly; surprised he was no longer afraid. He imagined Lewis standing over him, Hobson stepping back from his body and refusing... No, don’t do that, I don’t want Rawbone cutting my body...

James began to mentally recite the prayer of penitence...

Suddenly there was a huge amount of noise and shouting. The door was kicked in, the chair splitting, the door falling off its hinges and Steve was yanked off him, out of him, and then the noise was incredible. James shifted, turning around, to see Ellis battering the living daylights out of Steve, realising that Ellis had seriously restrained himself with him.

Eventually Charlie yelled to him to stop. Ellis seemed to hear, and just grabbed Steve by the arms, pulling them behind his back.

“In James’ work jacket pocket, there’s some handcuffs.”

“What the fuck?”

“He’s a cop, okay? Real police cuffs. Get them.”

Charlie picked James jacket out the remnants of the broken chair and started going through pockets, emptying them on the bed. Hanky, phone, cigarettes, lighter, some tissues, some tic tacs; smelling salts, another hanky, lipstick, mascara and finally a pair of handcuffs. He handed them over and Ellis cuffed him and between them they dragged him out of the room.

When Ellis returned he came in with a face as black as thunder. “This is army business, honey. You hear? I’ll get him thrown in the glasshouse when we get back. Charlie’s gone to get my car. If, and this is a big if honey, if the MPs think he’s connected to this ripper and it’s not a one off, your boss will be informed. In the meantime, honey, you keep quiet, okay?”

James had been lying on his side, in pain and afraid and not really taking anything in. He was bleeding from three slits in his neck and shoulder blade, as well as bleeding anally as Steve hadn’t bothered with lube.

“I’m not okay,” he said quietly.

“It’s okay baby. I’ve called Jonno. He’d a mate, a medic. He always gets a ride with us; he’s here to see his fiancée, sweet girl. I can’t take you to casualty; I can’t let this get out. Certain newspapers and politician are gunning for us; this will be bad, especially if Steve just lost it. We don’t know yet he’s the ripper, do we. I mean. Come on honey, I love you, and you are my sweet, innocent young bitch, but you’re not that young, are you? Nearly twice the age of the average victim.”

“More than some,” said James, thinking of poor Rowan, Rachel and Mouse yet again.

“More? Well, there you go then.”

James’ doorbell rang.

“That’s Jonno, he’ll sort you out honey.”

Ellis left an hour later, shoving Steve in the back of the car under the cover of darkness with Charlie’s help and then Jonno got in. He’d cleaned and dressed James’ cuts and checked him down below. The bleeding had already stopped. Apart from telling James to take painkillers, he left. Ellis returned briefly, to hug James. He clung back like a drowning man.

“I don’t blame you honey, so stop saying sorry. That Steve was a bastard, if you’d tried to fight him off I’d come back to you dead, baby. I’d rather you were raped than dead. We can deal with this, eh? You just make sure your boss doesn’t know until the MPs contact him, alright? Let us sort our own shit. Bye babe. Try to sleep honey.”

James had been drunk before Ellis met him and coupled with the shock and the painkillers he surprisingly fell asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

James woke early, showered and then bathed and then had another shower. The he put clean dressings on his neck and shoulder and dressed for work.

At work, he kept his head down, offering to complete Lewis’ outstanding paperwork and avoided looking at his boss. He’d completely forgotten about timings to alibi (or not) Ellis. When Lewis demanded his statement James looked up, momentarily confused before he mumbled he didn’t have the chance. Lewis looked at him for a few moments, so seriously scrutinizing him that James blushed, almost feeling he was being mentally undressed by his boss, which didn’t feel like he would have hoped and dreamed. Then, suddenly, after his long stare, Lewis got up and left, telling James to stay put.

James watched curiously as his boss left and then went back to the paperwork, trying and failing to bury himself so thoroughly in work he would forget all that happened the previous night. Half an hour later Lewis returned and touched his shoulder lightly.

“Come with me sergeant,” he said grimly.

“Sir?” James questioned nervously. He followed Lewis through the building, growing more nervous as he realised they were going to an interview suite.

He followed Lewis in and was alarmed to see Innocent sitting at the table. Lewis pulled out the chair from the side of the table usually used by witnesses, by suspects.

“Sit down,” Lewis said coldly, not looking at him.

“James,” Innocent began gently, “before we start is there anything you’d like to tell me. It will make it much easier.”

“Like what?”

“Your boyfriend.”

“What about him?”

“Don’t pretend to be thick James! Why didn’t you give me that statement I asked for? It wouldn’t have taken you long!”

“You could start by telling us if you can alibi him,” Innocent said. “You know what this is about. Every time we have a victim you have a date. Your boyfriend is coming into Oxford, he’s not local.”

“I’m asleep sometimes when he leaves. Other times –” James shrugged. “I can tell you that I get a call to attend a new victim at least one to four hours after he’s left, but that doesn’t not alibi him, does it? It depends on how long the body was lying undiscovered. But Ma’am, Sir, you can’t believe it would be Ellis!”

“I don’t believe, sergeant, I follow procedure. We have witnesses that say the assailant is a black or mixed race man between 30 and 40 and that he is a soldier.”

“Your boyfriend, James, Captain Ellis Calixte, how much do you really know about him?”

“Everything! Everything that I need to know! He’s not a rapist and murderer!”

“He’s a killer.”

“He’s not!”

“He’s a trained killer James, don’t delude yourself. He’s a soldier.”

“Yeah, but, he defuses bombs. He saves people, like those Afghani schoolgirls, he defused all the bombs in their school. Well, except for the one...”

“He is still in the army, and don’t trick yourself into thinking he’d not killed people.”

“So have you. Sir.”

“Aye, defending others, by accident...”

“Point.”

“Shut up, both of you! Calm down. James, tell me what you know, because Lewis and I can prove you don’t know all you think.”

“What?”

“Tell me,” demanded Innocent.

“Winchester. Sandhurst. Youngest of three sons. Wealthy Ghanaian family. Duel nationality. Twice decorated army officer, a captain. What else do you want to know? He was brought up in a charismatic church but worships at a Methodist church.”

“Did you know he was married?”

“What? No! You’re lying!” James backed away from them, clutching his jacket to pull around him if he were cold.

“You know we’re not,” Lewis said, much more kindly. “And I can see you genuinely didn’t.”

“Married for 19 years to Grace Calixte, with two children, Hope, five and Michael, two.”

“But he said...” James began quietly before fading out. He coughed.

“Get him some water, Lewis. James, we’re going through the list of victims.”

“But...”

“There was one night where there was no victim, but you came in bruised James, like now,” Lewis said. “Only then you were limping, you could barely sit down. You were in serious pain, but it wasn’t your bruises. You had a date last night, didn’t you?”

“Ellis came over, yes.”

Innocent sighed and looked at Lewis who looked sadly at James.

“We didn’t have a victim last, did we? Or did we have another survivor?” Innocent said.

James began to shake. “What are you talking about?”

“Will you take your tie and jacket of James, undo your shirt,” Lewis said in the same distant, cold voice.

“What? No! Ma’am, you can’t...”

“Sergeant, make it easy on yourself. At the moment you’re on a possible suspension, don’t force us to arrest you.”

“Ellis didn’t do anything! Ellis got him off me! He said if the Military Police decided he was a possible suspect they would contact you. But they haven’t, have they?”

“Well, they haven’t, but they may just be protecting their own, or your boyfriend was lying. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we. How about you tell us, as a victim, your statement.”

“What? No. I’m fine.”

“What is wrong with you?” Lewis screamed, leaning over the table, resting arms on fists. “You bloody minded, thick headed, stupid... Agh!” Lewis stalked away to the corner of the room, angry and disgusted with himself, for shouting, for nearly calling James something he would regret, forever. He calmed himself, focusing on his breathing, before turning to Innocent. “Can you give us a couple of minutes, Ma’am?”

“Two minutes Robbie.” She left.

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t know,” James shrugged.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

James blushed to the roots of his hair and looked down. “Can you be in love with two people at the same time?”

“I don’t know, James. Love, yes, in love? I don’t know, maybe but probably not. Do you know the difference?”

“What?”

“Do you know anything of love?”

“What?”

“Has anyone loved you?”

“Ellis says he loves me.”

Lewis breathed out through his teeth. “He hits you!”

“He’s always sorry, he doesn’t mean to. He watched two of his men – two kids, just blown up. He tried to get to them, he’d given the wrong information... He just gets angry.”

“He’s been arrested by the military police three times for domestic violence, James. He has a caution, he put Mrs. Calixte in hospital, when she was pregnant, two years before this incident.”

“No! You’re lying!”

“He raped you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The way you held your body the first – no, the second time he bruised you. He hit you on your first date for saying no to penetrative sex. I found you, remember, pumped full of alcohol and dope not remembering if you gave consent or not.”

James stood up and kicked his chair over. “That was private! Confidential!” he shrieked.

“This is.”

“The video’s running! What do you want me to say?”

“The truth about last night, for a start.”

James glared at his boss, about to snap no.

Lewis glared back, willing James to cooperate.

James looked down, shrugging.

Lewis sighed deeply, “James Hathaway, I –”

“Wait!” With shaking hands James undid his tie and the top two buttons on his shirt and pulled shirt and jacket back of his neck and peeled off the dressings.

“Shit James.”

“He’s called Steve, he and some other soldiers always get a lift to Oxford with Ellis. That’s all I know.”

Innocent, who had been observing from behind the glass walked straight in to the room. “Right, we’ll suspend this while we get a doctor to take a look at that. Were you raped James?”

“Yes, but...”

“Then we’ll get you down to rape suite.”

“He didn’t come, Ellis got him off me. Besides, I’ve had lots of baths and showers.”

“I know, James,” Innocent said softly, “I know you feel like you can’t get clean. But you may be injured inside. We need the expert medic to take a look.”

“No.”

“Okay, fine. Give me your statement now. Everything you know about these men in your boyfriend’s car, where he parked, when he arrived, when he left, where he picked them up, as well as what this Steve looks like, what he did to you. Evidence, sergeant, evidence. Then I want you checked by the doc and then you’re going home, on sick leave not suspension until I figure out what to do about you. You silly, silly boy.”

 

Lewis escorted Hathaway to the doctor’s room, but left him to go to Innocent’s office. He looked sadly at his sergeant before he left him, shaking his head hopelessly.

“James,” he began. Hathaway’s head snapped up, eyes burning with anger and betrayal. Lewis turned tail, afraid, not knowing what to say, how to begin.

The doctor examined his neck and wanted to examine him internally.

“Did you bleed, sergeant?”.

“ Yes, but it stopped last night,” James answered, blushing. “I bleed a bit, sometimes if...” He looked down, blushes now reaching his neck. “This was more though,” he whispered into his chest.

“Well, I do need to look, please.”

“I said it’s stopped!” James shouted. “You’re not touching me!” he shrieked.

The doctor sighed through her teeth. “Fine. Have you been to the loo yet?”

“What?”

“Emptied your bowels. It could start the bleeding again.”

James stared, hoping the ground would swallow him. “Sort of,” he mumbled.

“And did the bleeding start?”

“Sort of,” he mumbled again. “But sometimes...” he began again.

“I really do need to examine you.”

“I’m fine. He was hardly inside me. Ellis got him off me really quickly and...”

The doctor stared at James. “Your boyfriend beat him up, right?”

James nodded. “Uh uh.”

The doctor ran from the room, bumping into Lewis in the corridor.

“I’ve been talking to Hathaway, his boyfriend beat up his attacker very badly, you need to get forensics down there...”

“Yes, doctor, I know. The Chief and I have both been a little slow, they ate there, and I doubt James has done the washing up yet. I was just coming to get his key.”

 

Lewis told James to wait in the canteen, as he was officially off duty. He handed his key over with very bad grace and as soon as Lewis has left the building he was back at his desk, finding Ellis Calixte’s address.

It was the married officers quarters on the base, and yes two adults registered there, Ellis and Grace Callixte. He was just writing the phone number down when Lewis returned.

“No. Oh no James. No. You can’t be seriously going to phone her.”

“I won’t say who I am, I just want to know what she’s like.”

“Don’t. Seriously, James, don’t.”

James stood up. “You are seriously pissing me off Robbie!” he yelled, pointing a finger at Lewis. “You’ve just been waiting for this, haven’t you? So bloody smug and judgemental. Well, Ellis is African and in the army, where it was still bloody illegal to be gay! He probably bloody had no choice. I know he loves me, and...”

“What has got into to you?” Lewis demanded, slamming the office door shut. “Three months ago you were still hating yourself for being gay and now you’re fine with adultery?”

James looked sick. “I’m not, I’m just saying... You think I should finish with him?”

“He’s married. He beats you. There’s two reasons for you.”

“But I can’t, he... Oh! You wouldn’t understand. You’re...”

“What James? Too old? I can still fall in love. Too straight? Well, not necessarily, James, no I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“Not straight.”

James stared. “Don’t do this to me,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Do what?”

“Tell me now, that you’re... what? Bisexual?”

“Yes. And James, I’m telling you pet, there are other options.”

“But.. but... I need to get out of here!” James pushed past Lewis and ran from the office. Lewis followed him and watched him run down the stairs. He was about to just shout out ‘I love you’ when someone else starting climbing the stairs. Swearing under his breath he went back to his office to wait for Innocent to sort out a warrant and negotiate with the Military Police over Steven Kingsman.

 

 

Grace was getting the kids’ tea when the phone rang. She could hear them screaming out in the garden with their father. He was going to get them hyped up before he disappeared for the evening, yet again. Sighing, she wiped her hands on her skirt and waddled ungainly, heavily pregnant, to the kitchen phone.

“Hello?” She spoke with a strong Ghanaian accent.

Silence.

“Hello?”

More silence.

“Hello? At least say something. Deep breathing will do.”

“Um. Sorry. This is a mistake.”

“Is that James Hathaway?”

He hung up. Grace looked up to see Ellis standing in the back doorway.

“What did you say?” he said dangerously.

“DS Hathaway,” she said quickly, “He came to the base with his Inspector about those bad, bad attacks on those poor girls. They think it’s a soldier.”

“You’ve met him?” Ellis was so surprised he forgot to lie.

“I made him coffee. Dresses well. He’s the boy with the guitar from that band we saw at church.” She stared up at him, defiantly. “I was a bit surprised, not like the normal poofs you bugger.”

“You shut the fuck up with your judgements, you ungrateful cow.” He poked her bump. “That bastard better be black, that’s all I can say. You slapper!”

“You get off my baby you bastard!”

Ellis raised his fist, Grace shrank back.

“Daddy?” called a voice from the garden.

“Coming babes.”

Hope went back to her swing and climbed on just as her father’s phone rang. It had fallen out of his pocket when he’d been swinging her high over his head. She jumped off and answered it.

“Hello? Do you want to speak to my Daddy?”

Ellis snatched the phone. “What the fuck are you doing, you prying bitch? I told you never to call! And what’s that about, phoning my woman, eh? Stressing her when she’d pregnant.”

 

 

James froze, standing stock still in the car park, hardly breathing. “Pregnant?” he said, shocked. He felt cold all over. “I’m sorry. Ellis? Ellis? Say something.”

“I should have known, as soon as I knew you were a detective.”

“My boss told me, I was only checking...”

“Your boss?”

“I didn’t believe him. I think they’re going to fire me. They got me into an interview suite like I was a suspect. They thought you were the ripper. I had to tell them about Steve, didn’t I?”

“Are you okay baby?”

“No. I didn’t believe them, so I checked. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me Ellis, I need you. I’m really sorry...”

“It’s okay baby. I’ll come over. Are they going to arrest Steve?”

“For me if no one else. I had no choice, please don’t be angry...”

“Honey babe, s’sh. Don’t feel bad baby. I’m coming to see you. Love ya honey.”

 

Grace stood, hands on hips, a child clutching each leg, glaring at Ellis.

“He didn’t know about me?”

“Of course he didn’t. Sweetie, why don’t you take your brother and watch some TV.”

“Mama said not to.”

“Just for once, eh? What do you say, Mama?”

“Okay. This one time because your Daddy and I have big grown up talking to do.”

“Like using more bad words.”

“Yes, Hope, like that. Go inside now.” She turned to look at her husband as soon as the children were out of earshot.

“He is a threat, this one. Get rid of him or I will tell your Daddy.”

“Oh. Oh. You want to live on an army salary, do you? Or maintenance from one plus welfare. Oh.” Ellis threw his arms up in the air with mock horror. “ No.” Ellis clicked his fingers. “No, baby, without me you are so deported sweetie, back to concrete floors and cow shit and flies with your no count family.”

“This one, it is love, isn’t it?”

“Who’s the father, Grace?”

“I tell you, you kick the shit out of him, yes yes? No way do I tell you.”

“I’m out there, up to my eyes in dust and heat and fucking blood, watching children blown to pieces and you’re at home shagging some bloody white chav, weren’t you? Weren’t you!”

“He wasn’t white, Ellis, and, as you would put it, it was the one and only good shag I’ve had in my life. Do you know why, eh? Eh?”

Ellis had balled his fists, and even raised one, but he suddenly looked defeated, stricken with guilt and shame. He lowered his arm. “Yes sweetie, yes I do. But you knew what I was when you married me. You wanted a good life, don’t forget that. Am I worth it, the washing machine and the plasma TV, eh? I hope so, baby, coz you and me, we’re stuck with this. I don’t need to get rid of him, he’ll dump me however much he says he needs me. Want to know why?”

“Why?” Grace asked, genuinely curious.

“My baby was going to be a priest, he was a virgin until me. He’s not going to put up with cheating on you. He has more honour than you and me put together. Bet you never thought you’d see that in an English man, eh? I’m going.” He turned his back on his wife and went out of the back gate, calling out a goodbye to the kids, who didn’t hear as they were taking full advantage and watching cartoons very loudly on Boomerang, something never allowed.

Ellis was immediately on the phone. “Charlie, mate. Look I’m going into Oxford now, so if you wanna come you better be at the bottom of Foxhall Road in ten minutes. Tell Jonno yeah?”

He hung up and made a second call.

“Steve, mate. You cooled down now? Listen, my bitch’s boss got the truth out of him. They’re probably on their way, so...”

“You think I’ll let you in my...”

“Don’t you talk about Phil and Andy in the same breath as...”

“Alright. As team mates. If you swear, but if there’s another victim tonight so help me I’ll be the one arrested for your murder, got it?

“Bottom of Foxhall. Five minutes.”

 

 

“Hathaway,” James answered his work phone listlessly, lying on his sofa staring at his ceiling.

“No Sir.

“Redbridge, obviously, they’re coming in from Didcot.

“I don’t know. I think it’s over. You were right sir, I shouldn’t...

“No sir. Don’t. Don’t say that, don’t call me that...”

“No, I am not crying!

“I’ll let you know if I hear, if he’s coming. I don’t have a choice, do I, if I want my job?

“No, I don’t. But I do want to see you again.

“Actually, he said he was coming, now, but that was a while ago. If he wasn’t lying, you’ll all be too late

“What? No! He just said...

“I won’t!.

“Don’t... don’t!” James hung up. He picked up his guitar and began to play, a sad, unhappy melody, when his phone rang again. Ellis tells him he’s leaving Didcot. He had a feeling Lewis might be monitoring, so no he didn’t have a choice. He phoned Lewis back, hating himself.

Sighing deeply, he picked up his guitar for a second time and began to play the same sad, unhappy melody, this time tears pouring down his face as he played when his phone rang yet again.

“Hello?” he said nervously.

 

“Honey babe. I’m in Oxford. Well, on my way. Meet me in town, babes. Starbucks.

“The High.

“No honey, I don’t trust myself, and we need to talk without me losing it. You trust me, don’t you?

“I... I love you honey boy. James. I love you James. Please meet me, baby, please?

“Thank you honey.”

Ellis put his phone in his pocket, thinking the car park and buses were incredibly busy for a week day evening, too late for rush hour, too early for partying. Four men followed him and his mates on the bus. He thought they were together, but they all sat in different places. The one sitting behind him smirked at his call to James.

 

James was standing outside Starbucks, leaning on the wall next to the door, smoking furiously. He flicked his cigarette away as he saw Ellis come up to him.

“Okay honey? Shall we go in? I’ll get you a coffee. Go upstairs and find a quiet table babe.” Ellis did not sound his usual confident self.

James just stared.

“Please honey boy. James. Please James, at least listen to what I have to say.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Cool. That’s cool baby. Grande skinny latte, yeah?”

James found a table in the corner by the window. The traffic was heavy, buses going past every two minutes or so, each and every one full to the brim with workers on their way home. It started to drizzle and pedestrians rushed by on the pavement below looking nearly as miserable as he felt. Trust him to finally get a boyfriend only to have a married one! He didn’t think he was capable of shocking his mother anymore, but if she knew about this... And yet he had seriously considered ringing her.

“Hey baby. I got you a cupcake because I know you probably haven’t eaten.”

“I couldn’t...”

“I’m sorry James.” Ellis put the coffees down and sat down opposite James. He picked up James’ left hand with both of his tracing the line of his fingers with one of his own.

“Why?”

“Why what baby? Lie to you? Get married? What baby? What? Would you have still slept with me if you knew I was married, eh?”

“I don’t know why I slept with you anyway, I’m supposed to be celibate.” James let out a high sound of despair. “Now, I need you. I can’t live without you. Is that love? Your wife knew my name.”

“Ee. My wife knows I’m gay. She married me knowing I was gay.”

“Why? Why would she do that?”

“Have you seen the poverty in Africa?”

“What? You’re saying what, she agreed to be your – what beard? – in return for a nice life in the West?”

“Yes.”

“But why, why?”

“I repeat: have you seen the poverty in Africa? Have you tried to live on an army salary knowing if something happens to you, if you make it to retirement, you are so deported back home? My Daddy was going to disinherit, that’s why baby. Greed.”

“So, what are you saying? You and she came to an arrangement?”

“Yeah, baby, an arrangement. Stuck together, for better for worse.”

“Pregnant?”

“Not mine, the slapper.”

“That’s double standards.”

“So what. I was overseas getting shot at and my wife shagged some chav or squaddie...”

“Ellis. You lied to me!”

“No, I just didn’t tell you.”

“You told me she was your sister!”

“Eh?” Ellis thought about it, sucking air through his teeth in a sour hiss. He remembered the photos. “Eeh, baby, she is my sister. You’re my brother, eh?”

“Not like that, you said your children were your niece and nephew? Unless they are, unless your brother helped you out with kids, but that’s sick.”

“Hope and Michael are mine. The family were getting anxious, they wanted to send her back to her family. I hadn’t... Not until we had to...”

“So...?”

Ellis hadn’t let go of James’ hand. James hadn’t pulled his hand away. James hadn’t looked at Ellis, though, once, keeping his eyes on their hands. Now he looked up, emphasising the so.

“So, baby. I love you.” Ellis kissed James’ fingers, one my one. “I love your fingers, so long and graceful, made for playing your beautiful guitar. What do you want to do baby? My deployment date has been brought forward.”

James swallowed and stared, “When?”

“Three days.”

James looked down again and spoke quietly, so very quietly, “Do they do polygamy in Ghana?”

Ellis smiled, “Half Muslim, many traditional people, what do you think? But me, baby, I’m a Christian.”

“I can’t get one verse out of my head.”

“What, honey boy? Maybe you think too much, analyse too much. Leviticus, maybe Genesis or Romans?”

“Deuteronomy.”

“Eh? What’s that? About polygamy? I missed the bit about having boys too.”

“No. Doesn’t matter.”

“James, honey boy, I know you. You were hoping for a civil partnership, make everything nearly okay, yeah?” Ellis sighed through his teeth, making a tsk sound. “I can’t do that baby. This is up to you. Will you dump me?”

“My boss thinks I should.”

“The one you fancy?”

“It’s not like that!”

“Isn’t it honey? Everything is too fucking over complicated with you!”

“What do you want from me Ellis?”

“I thought that was obvious, baby.”

“What, sex? Is that all I am to you? That’s what my...”

“Ee, ee. Baby. I love you. Your over complicated mind, your guitar playing, your cooking – yeah, absolutely your cooking! Your pale white skin, your honey coloured hair, your blue eyes, your long, long legs... Baby, I can sit on your sofa and listen to you play for hours, or listen to you agonise over theology. But yeah, the sex is fucking amazing!”

“What do you want?”

“In a word, honey?”

“Yes.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Wait for me, honey. Write to me. E-mail, when I’ve got access. Pray for me, yeah. Do what anyone does, stuck back here.”

“Are you coming back?”

“Eh, only God knows that. Hope so, baby, hope so. Got you, got my kids. I promised Hope I’m coming back.”

“But you said you weren’t going to delegate?”

“No. I’m not sending a kid near a UED, unless we’re clear how to defuse it, no. Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been doing this since the Troubles, baby, and I’m still here.” Ellis smiled widely.

James looked down again, letting out a little half laugh, a snort of despair. “I’ll wait.”

“Can we go back to yours now?”

James shrugged.

“I have a present for you.”

“What?”

Ellis pulled a beaded necklace from his pocket, black and white and yellow, similar to the one in the photo he’d seen of Grace, but chunkier.

“Grace has one.”

“Everyone has one, baby. When I was a kid, this girl, Nanna, she worked in the kitchens at home. She got sick and my Daddy sacked her. I was furious, I found her, in Accra, starving. I got her a little home, not much, one room, but I set her up in business. She makes these, for tourists mostly, and she get the drugs from a clinic so she supports her kids and she’s well.”

“Sick?”

“The virus.”

“Oh. Are you..?”

“Negative, baby. I don’t take risks.” Ellis kissed James’ palm before he stood up. “Let me put it on you.”

James took his tie off and undid his top button as Ellis stood behind him. Ellis winced at the cuts on his necks. The police medic had taken off the dressings to give them a change to clear up. They had stopped bleeding hours ago.

“Maybe we’ll wait ‘til you’re better baby. Wear it with the gold one, yeah.”

“Like Grace?”

“If you want.” Ellis sat down again and opened up James right hand and pressed the necklace into his palm then closed his long fingers over it. Then he leaned across the table and kissed James gently, so unlike his normal kisses. When he pulled away and sat back he could see tears in James’ eyes.

“Is this the last time I’ll see you?”

“Don’t know, I’ll try to get over before I ship out, but I can’t promise. I’ll text you if I can’t. Will you write?”

“Yes, of course I will.”

“Will you wait?”

“I’d never betray you,” James said fiercely, implying he certainly didn’t think the same of Ellis.

But Ellis was either not offended or didn’t pick up on it. “Good. Ee, drink your coffee honey and then we’ll go.”

 

Meanwhile, DCs Hooper, Davis, Ngoti and Morris were following Private Steven Kingsman and Dr. Jalil Khan. Private Charles Tregor they let go, he was the wrong colour. After following Khan to his fiancée’s family home, where they found out by talking to the neighbours, he always went, Davis and Morris called for advice. He was, after all, a good eight inches too short. Steven Kingman may have been the prime suspect, but they wanted to be certain.

Hooper and Davis stalked Kingsman through out the evening, while James and Ellis caught the number 4 bus up the Iffley Road, James too uncomfortable to walk.

Lewis followed the operation on the police radio and his mobile, parked a little way up the Iffley Road from James’ flat, his gaze never leaving the basement windows.


	11. Chapter 11

Lewis was called away the moment Hooper and Ngoti made the arrest, immediately calling for back up, Ngoti getting the flick knife stuck in his thigh.

After it was all over, when Steven Kingsman was in custody and his almost victim, a young female sixth former called Jill Pole, along with Ngoti, had been taken off to the JR in an ambulance, Lewis stood in Innocent’s office.

“Thank God that’s over.”

“It was a gamble, ma’am.”

“Well, we would have put him away for James, but where was the evidence for the others. I suppose forensics could have matched the knife, but that would have been a tenuous, shaky connection in court.”

“S’pose ma’am.”

“But what do we do with James?”

“Ma’am?”

“I don’t want to formally discipline him, but he did withhold evidence.”

Lewis sighed, rubbed his eye and stared out of the window. “I know ma’am.”

“What do you want to do with him?”

Lewis snorted. “That’s a leading question ma’am.”

“Can you still trust him?”

“He was confused. Scared. He wasn’t thinking clearly, was he?”

“But his boyfriend...?”

“Is innocent, we now know. Innocent of being the ripper, that is. Still like to prosecute the bastard for GBH. Ma’am.”

“I can’t comment on his private life, as long as it doesn’t interfere with his work. But as for not reporting the sexual assault...”

“Ma’am, that is common.”

“But, he’s a police officer.”

“Would make it harder.”

“Do you think he’s okay, Robbie, honestly?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.”

“I think I need to order counselling. I think I should have done so at least a year ago, after he found that poor girl. If not then, after Crevecoeur Hall.”

“Do you really think it would help?”

“Okay, Robbie, you obviously have a different opinion!”

“I don’t trust counsellors ma’am, and I don’t think James does. Being made to go over his past isn’t going to help.”

“Well, allow me to disagree. He’s at least off sick until he has a psychology profile done. What would you do?”

“Let him come back quietly, as if he’s been off with flu, and ignore it.”

“What?”

“You push James, he’ll quit ma’am. Do you want that?”

“He’s a good detective, but you won’t be here to carry him forever, Lewis, you just remember that.”

Lewis took a breath, as if he were about to snap something, but thought better of it. “Ma’am,” he said.

“Shall I ask my leading question again? What do you want to do with him?”

“Get him away from this boyfriend, ma’am, but how do I do that?”

“He’s your sergeant, not your son Robbie. You can’t interfere,” Innocent said gently.

“I don’t want him to be my bloody son!” Lewis let out, anguished.

“Oh. I see.” Innocent looked across the desk at her Inspector, seeing all, feeling nothing but sympathy, but at a loss for any words to provide any comfort.

*

Meanwhile, at James’ flat, Ellis was pushing for sex, despite his promise. James started shouting at him, bringing out all his hurt of being abused, of being beaten and hit and raped, all forgiven for love, for love of Ellis, of love of God, as if he could lessen his sin by monogamy for life, that God considers the one you have sex with to be the one you marry as mentioned in Deutronomy and again in Numbers and now Ellis is married! Married! And now he thinks he can just demand sex, as if James were female and his wife from about a thousand years ago and he has had enough. He has risked everything, his career, his faith, his friendships at work and in the band, the respect of his superior officers and colleagues and worst of all, Lewis...

All the while James’ phone kept ringing.

James was not at all surprised when Ellis started to hit and kick him...

After it was over, and Ellis had dragged him to the bedroom, James began to scream and beg, really beg, not to be fucked. He’d been raped, really raped, and he was injured...

 

“Still can’t get an answer Sir,” Davis said as Lewis stormed out of the front entrance of the Accident and Emergency at the John Radcliffe Hospital. He’d been to visit Ngoti, to tell him Innocent had guaranteed his promotion to sergeant.

“Fine. Thanks.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and tried James’ number again as he walked to the car. But before he finished dialling his phone rang.

“Lewis.”

“Robbie. Control have just had a call, uniform passed it to me when they checked the address.”

“What?”

“James’ flat, the couple in the flat above have reported a disturbance. I’m holding on uniform attending.”

“You want me to attend?”

“Yes, there is a car on his road now, if you require back up.”

Lewis got into his car and put in on hands free as he pulled away after putting the light on. Innocent played him the recording.

“Hi. Er, yeah. Look, I don’t want to get him in trouble, coz, look he’s a policeman too, but I’ve been worried for months. We hear shouts and screams and the other week, it sounded horrible, furniture being thrown I think and...”

“Ma’am. Can you tell me who you are and where you are calling from and what’s the problem?”

She told him her name and address, “James is in the flat below, the basement. He’s screaming. Oh God, I can’t stand it. It’s his boyfriend...”

“Are you reporting a domestic incident ma’am?”

“Suppose. Please, I’ve never heard him scream so loud, and he’s pleading, it’s breaking my heart.”

“It’s okay Ma’am, we’ll send someone around now.”

“Then they contacted me,” said Innocent.

“Oh damn!”

“Robbie?”

“Fucking shitting coaches on St. Clements. Okay. I’m cutting up the back streets through to Cowley and on to Iffley. ETA two minutes more.”

“Keep me informed.” Innocent hung up.

 

 

When Lewis arrived at James’ bedroom, having let himself into the flat, he was stunned; stunned and shocked to find Ellis curled up on the floor, weeping and whimpering. James was half naked, on the bed, seemingly unconscious. He was badly beaten, much more than previously, and he was bleeding, bleeding anally.

Lewis took his phone from his pocket, checking James’ neck for a pulse.

“Don’t. Sir.”

Lewis backed away, surprised.

“You need an ambulance James. And I need back up,” he hissed, nodding towards the figure on the floor.

“No. Sir. Don’t arrest him. This is my fault.”

“Okay,” Lewis said carefully. “But you need treatment. You may be bleeding to death. I don’t know what to do.”

“No!”

“Phone the ambulance,” Ellis said, standing up, wiping his face with the back of his hands. “Honey, you need help.” He turned to Lewis. “I didn’t know. I never meant this to happen. The blood. I can’t bear it. It was like...” He broke off, unable to think of what he was going to say.

“I’m not going to hospital! I’d rather die!” James snapped. “Same as what? Why are you crying? For me? You said Grace!” He sat up. Lewis was alarmed. He thought this is the worst thing to do. Not knowing what to do, he hurriedly started to text Hobson.

“Every time. Every time there is blood. Ee. I don’t have to be gay to not want to fuck my wife, that bastard thing they did to her when she was small. Why she nearly died when each baby came. I won’t even be here again, and I want to, I want to... I’m sorry, James, I didn’t think you would...” he turned his back and threw up his hands. “I’m always so fucking careful. With you. With any fucking body!”

“What are you talking about Ellis? I told you I couldn’t...”

“I’m sorry. Okay? I’m talking about Grace, about what they did to her.”

“He’d talking about female circumcision,” said Lewis coldly, coming over to James and doing exactly what Hobson’s text told him to do, which was flip James back over on to his front and raise his legs. He’d been with Val too long not to take in her causes, her campaigns with Amnesty and Women’s Rights Groups: when Val had been alive it had been 80% of African women were ‘circumcised’, or rather, mutilated. Horror and sympathy for Grace Calixte couldn’t begin to cover what Lewis was feeling for this woman he’d never met, along with horror, sympathy, concern and worry (and love) for James, even finding room enough in his ever expanding heart for sympathy for messed up Ellis too. His heart was racing, too, thumping in his chest at ninety miles an hour. The last thing he needed was to have a bloody heart attack. He needed to keep it together physically as well as mentally for James. Poor James. As if his childhood hadn’t been enough he’d had to go look for some more.

“Wha-what are you...?” James began as Lewis raised his legs.

“What the fuck...?” snapped Ellis at the same moment.

“I’m trying to stop the bleeding!” Lewis replied to both of them. “Hobson is on the way. Let her in,” he told Ellis, furious that he some how felt sympathy for this bastard. Both men seemed to be like confused children.

“I’m not dead yet!”

“No. But she is a doctor and she can keep you alive, you stupid sod!”

When Hobson arrived she took control of the situation, examining James, sending Lewis to make tea, ignoring Ellis and finally, after a thorough examination and a stern warning to James that he was dying if he didn’t get urgent medical attention, and she didn’t want him in her mortuary, thank you very much, she called an ambulance.

Once the ambulance had carried away James, and Laura with him, Lewis arrested Ellis anyway, despite James’ continued protests. Ellis, however, made no protest, did not argue or fight, just nodded sadly and quietly agreed he was a total shit to James. James had a rectal prolapse; three cracked ribs, one broken and a dislocated shoulder, as well as numerous bruising to his body. Lewis was forced to hand Captain Calixte over to the military police, which then released him with a second caution, but since this caution was for domestic violence with a separate partner, it had no effect on his rank or career. His shipment date had been brought forward 48 hours. He was flying for Kandahar province in a matter of hours.

 

Furious with the system Lewis stormed into Innocent’s office as soon as he had handed Ellis over to the Military Police.

“How can you just let them take that bastard?” he yelled, stopping suddenly. The Chief Constable was sat there, smiling. Jean Innocent appeared to be preening a little. “Sorry sir,” Lewis said immediately. “Sorry Ma’am. I’ll just...” he started to back out of the office.

“Ah. Inspector Lewis. Good work. We were just about to call you. I’ve arranged a press conference for 2100 hours. Obviously you need to be there. What is this about?”

“Oh, the military, sir. And unrelated case, domestic violence. They came and took my arrest from me.”

“Straight back to work, eh? Good show. See you at the Charity Ball, Jean. We will we see Mr. Innocent this time?”

“Er, no.”

“Good. Then I can claim the first dance. Goodbye. Bye Inspector.”

Innocent stood up and walked around her desk once her boss had left. “Lewis, that was... Never mind. What are you talking about? Domestic violence? James I take it?”

Lewis sighed and began to relate what he had found, but he found himself breaking down. Gentle hands pushed him into a chair and called for tea from her secretary.

“It’s okay, Robbie. It’s okay. Laura is with him. He’ll be okay, I’m sure.”

“Only because this fucking shit is going over seas,” Lewis said bitterly.

 

Laura stayed with James in major trauma until they took him into theatre, fielding jokes from staff who knew her about her hovering like a vulture. She held James’ hand and stroked his cheek and tried to tell him she was his friend, not his enemy, and that Robbie Lewis was in love with him, the stupid boy. He didn’t need this bastard.

Apart from snorting with disbelieve at the assertions that Lewis was in love with him and protesting feebly, “Ellis isn’t a bastard, he just has issues,” he was silent, with tears sliding down his cheeks, unchecked.

He grew sleepy with the pre-med and clutched Laura’s hand. “I want to finish with him, but I’m afraid to,” he whispered.

“Are you sure?” he slurred as he was wheeled in the theatre, Laura was allowed to walk all the way.

“Uh huh.” Laura nodded. “He loves you as much as Val.” She smiled encouragingly, but James’ eyes were already closed.

As soon as he’d gone in she rushed to her office to phone Lewis.

“He’s gone in to theatre. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Is he... will he...?”

“He’ll be fine Robbie. Fine. He should have been treated immediately we were aware. What was Dr. Cox thinking of? The bloody stupid woman.”

“Calixte couldn’t of helped.”

“No.”

“Had to hand him over. Bastard military claim their own.”

“Not Kingsman, surely?”

“Nope. Spent hours with him, me and Innocent, and he is barking. Won’t ever stand trial.”

“I had the feeling that whoever – well, the repeated nature of the attacks. No sane person could...” Laura could hear sudden definite sobs. “Robbie, Robbie. S’sh. Don’t cry. It’s over. No more children mutilated and James is safe. He is. Where are you?”

“The station, at my office window. Watching the bloody media circus arrive.”

“I’m going to check on James now. He should be in post op. I’ll ring you again soon.”

“Thanks Laura, for you know... everything.”

“No problem.”

 

As soon as the MPs released him, Ellis went to see James in hospital. He hung about waiting for James to come out of surgery, telling the staff nurse he was his boyfriend.

“And what if he doesn’t want to see you soldier boy?” the staff nurse, an angry red head with a lilting Irish accent, demanded. “From what I gather you put him in here.”

“You’ve been misinformed,” Ellis said stiffly, every inch the British public school army officer. “My boyfriend was attacked yesterday evening and didn’t tell anyone or get help.”

“I understand you were arrested, Captain.”

“Then you misunderstand.”

“Well, Captain, if you want to wait, I’ll see if he’s up to visitors, he’s just come back to us from post op. Then, if he wants to see you...”

“Tell him I fly in four hours, nurse, tell him that. Please. And tell him I love him.”

The nurse scowled at him. “Fly. Fly where?”

“Afghanistan. Alright with that?”

“Okay. Fine. I’ll tell him.”

The nurse came back ten minutes later and beckoned to him. “Just fifteen minutes, Captain, he’s heavily sedated.”

Ellis followed the staff nurse. Neither paid any attention to the blonde haired doctor in green scrubs walking behind them in the same direction, she just blended into the mixed surgical ward.

James was in a side ward, a room of his own, two bays either side containing four beds each, one for men, and one for women, and a toilet next door. His door was open. He lay back, head on pillow, hair damp with sweat, face wet with tears, sliding down unheeded and ignored. A pulse register was clipped to his finger, a green butterfly for meds in the back of the same hand, and a saline drip attached to the crook of his arm.

“James, honey baby,” Ellis whispered, stroking James’ cheek. His eyes fluttered open. Neither man noticed the woman doctor just outside the door.

“Ellis?”

“I’m so sorry honey. Will you forgive me? I was stupid. I didn’t think about how much that bastard hurt you.”

“He didn’t bruise me. You did. He didn’t break my bones. You did. And you insisted on – you know, after he’d...” James sat up and yelled. “I told you no!”

“Hey, hey baby, don’t!” Ellis was alarmed. “Lay back baby. S’sh, honey, s’sh.” He pushed James back gently. “Take it easy, baby boy. S’sh. I’m sorry, okay. I’m stupid and thoughtless but I love you. I’m going, soon baby, for nine months. Don’t, don’t baby. S’sh.”

James calmed his breathing and looked up through his eyelashes. “Are you scared?”

Ellis’ eyes were inscrutable, black and cold for a moment, before his face split into a big grin that reached his eyes, softening them to a shining dark brown. “Shit scared baby. But I don’t admit that to anyone, so keep it secret.”

James nodded and smiled weakly. “Okay.”

They stayed there, in silence, looking at each other, Ellis holding James’ hand lightly, his thumb rubbing over the back of his hand.

“Are you coming back?” James asked, finally.

“Is there something to come back for?”

“Your kids?” offered James.

“You. You promised to write. And wait. Will you baby boy, will you?”

James sighed and looked away.

“Look baby, look.” Ellis held up a gold ring, a wedding band.

“It’s your wedding ring, Ellis,” James said sadly.

“Keep it safe for me. Wear it for me. Please.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“They do polygamy in Ghana, yes honey, yes they do. It’s what you asked. You’re mine honey boy, mine. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. You hurt me.”

“I promise baby, I promise I’ll control my temper. Please. I love you. You want me to leave Grace? I’ll sort a divorce out when I come back.”

Neither man registered that the female doctor behind James’ door had been there an unaccountably long time and neither noticed her snorts of disgust and disbelieve. James gazed up at Ellis and sighed again.

“Okay. I’ll wear it.”

Ellis picked up James left hand and kissed it before placing it on James’ ring finger. It was too loose, but James just clenched his fist to keep it in place. He allowed Ellis to kiss him on the mouth but he didn’t kiss back.

“I do love you, James, I do. You do believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” James sighed.

There was a cough. The staff nurse stood at the door, giving the strange doctor a curious glance.

“That’s enough time. You can come back in the morning.”

“I can’t. I’ll be on a fucking plane.” Ellis snapped. He put his hand to the back of James neck and pulled him into one of his violent kisses. James kissed back, desperately. When they broke he was crying all over again. “Bye honey.”

“I’ll wait. I’ll write. I promise.”

Dr. Laura Hobson heard no more. She stormed out of the ward and began to call Lewis. His phone was switched off. She tried Jean, but her phone to was switched off too. She tried again on her way home and once more as she got in. She finally gave up and left a voice mail on Jean’s phone, not thinking Robbie could cope with hearing the bloody infuriating news as a voice mail. It wasn’t until she flopped down on her sofa, a big glass of white wine in hand and turned on the TV she saw why she could not get hold of the Chief Superintendent and her Inspector in charge of the Oxford Ripper case. They were being hounded and applauded by the press in equal measure, still live on television.

After the press conference, which had been hell, especially since the news was that Kingsman would in all probability not stand trial, too unbalanced, the initial medical report said, Innocent took Lewis back to her office to discuss James. She had decided to put James on long term sick with orders for counselling. However, she had suspended the doctor who was supposed to have examined him earlier that day. James’ need for surgery was more due to her neglect than Ellis, although Ellis’ attempt at intercourse hadn’t helped.

It was then, after the discussion, Innocent broke the news of Hobson’s text. Lewis just felt sick. How could he make the man see sense? What the hell could he do? He stormed out of Innocent’s office to his, where he had begun to keep a bottle of brandy in his drawer. After hours of hard drinking and fuming went to see James in the middle of the night, flashing his warrant card to get in. It was by now gone midnight.

“It’s alright,” James said as soon as he had opened his eyes to his boss’ face, looking more worried and afraid than he had ever seen him. “I’ll finish with him when he comes home. I couldn’t do that to him, not now, not going out into a war zone.”

Lewis despaired and was relieved in equal measure.

“And then I’ll go back to being celibate, nice and safe and sinless. I’m done with relationships. They don’t work physically with women and they obviously don’t work with men, either. I give off the wrong signals, don’t I?”

Lewis was so saddened by James’ sudden, unexpected honesty. Not to me, he thought, not to me. No wrong signals, here. I just want to look after you, with or without sex, however and whatever you want, whatever makes you safe. But, of course, he said nothing. Instead he told them that Kingsman had confessed and would probably never stand trial, but be sectioned for life. He then went on to promise to re hang James’ bedroom door, replace the broken chair – the bed too if that held too many bad associations – and clean his flat.

James told him he was expected to be in hospital for at least a week and was waiting for a psychologist from Thames Valley Police to make contact with him.

All the while, though, Lewis couldn’t help noticing that James twisted the ring around and around his left ring finger. A week later, when Lewis picked James up from hospital after his discharge he was shocked to see James’ lovely hair gone, back to the short hair of when he first met him. Having got used to the many and varied styles of the inch long crop, he was saddened. It meant something, didn’t it? Something to do with celibacy and self-confidence, or rather, a total lack of self-confidence. James was dressed and waiting, in baggy black cargos and an equally baggy, ill fitting black tee shirt. He had no makeup. He was twisting and twisting the ring. He followed Lewis out of the ward, Lewis carrying his bags, curled up, shoulders hunched, as if he were trying to hide his height, to appear smaller, to disappear. It broke Lewis’ heart.

I love you, he thought at James, who of course, didn’t hear.


	12. Rebuilding lives

From: ellis.calixte@bfmod.gov.uk  
To: james.hathaway@thamesvalleypolice.gov.uk  
Sent: 2010.07.22 0331GMT

My dearest, sweetest boy James,

Thank you for all your letters. Sorry I haven’t replied before, I’m crap at that sort of thing. And busy. We were protecting charity and reconstruction workers and refugees down on the plains, but it’s back up the mountains and it’s bloody bleak. The CO has taken to taking me and Jonno and this kid, Lieutenant Ashad, to all the meetings with the tribal elders. Prat. I think he’s confusing skin colour with religion, language and culture. He should take Charlie, he’s fallen in love with a girl who works for Islamic Relief and is planning to convert. Only one of us speaks Arabic and knows anything at all about Islam and that’s me. Don’t speak Pushtu though, none of us do, so we rely on our translator, but can we trust him? The only good thing is it’s just us, no fucking Americans to fuck things up. Women invisible here. Bloody hate it. We’re supposed to be here to fight that crap, aren’t we?

I’m happy you are out of hospital, baby. I’m happy you think you’ve not lost your job. Are you back yet? They will forward this, right?

And you don’t know how happy I am to hear you are wearing my ring. I have your picture, I keep it close to my heart. You are mine baby, mine. Not my bitch anymore, but my second wife, my junior wife, my FAVOURITE wife. You remember that baby. You are mine.

I’m pissed off at what you tell me about Steve, the psycho. No fucking trial? No way? For things like this I think it is bad enough you have no death penalty. If I’d have caught him first, you’d have to have arrested me for murder, baby! I knew he was sick – too sick to live, I think. He should at least have to go through a trial and be sentenced to Broadmoor. How are those poor kids’ families going to find closure?

Stay safe baby boy, especially when you go back to work.

Love Ellis xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

James was re reading his e-mail for the tenth time, wondering what to make of it, when Lewis called. He’d taken to popping in after work ‘just to check’. He often brought take away or ingredients for James to cook, and sometimes came with wine, beer, chocolate, cake or books. Normally crime or thrillers, but sometimes he even acknowledged fantasy. He was always ‘just passing Blackwells’.

“Hi,” James said now, awkwardly, not wanting Lewis to guess about his e-mail, because then he would have had to admit to writing to Ellis regularly over the past six weeks.

“You okay bonny lad?” Lewis stepped past him, eyeing him suspiciously. “Not in pain again?”

“No. I’m healed, honestly. I don’t get pain – there – anymore. In fact the hospital said I was fit for work a fortnight ago.” He followed Lewis into his own flat and watched him put down two bags of shopping.

“Good. Shall I unpack for you?” Lewis starting to pull out stewing steak and vegetables and fruit.

“I’m not an invalid, you know, Sir.”

“Robbie,” Lewis corrected for the hundredth time.

James stood, looking at Lewis, hugging himself. “I’m still seeing that counsellor,” he said awkwardly.

“Yeah, pet, I know. She’s written her report. I was talking to Innocent this morning.”

“And?”

“Next week, I thought, but the beginning of September, she said.”

“September! But that’s another six weeks! I’ve run out of sick pay, I’ll have to claim state benefits! My landlord won’t like that!”

“S’sh. James. He doesn’t need to know.”

“How can I afford to live here? It’s taken nearly all my sick pay as it is, if it wasn’t for you –” James gestured at the shopping on the table.

“You should have said, love. I can loan you the money.”

“I can’t do that.”

Lewis made a dismissive noise. “I’ve more than enough. Val and me, we’d paid off the mortgage and I’m sitting on the proceeds, plus there was the insurance...” Lewis tailed off. Val’s life insurance, he meant, of course. He stared a long while at James and then carried on unpacking. James still stood, hugging himself. “Anyways, I thought you could make a stew tonight. Val made a lovely stew and you told me your Mam taught you to cook so I bet you can do a good, old fashioned proper stew.”

While their dinner cooked they sat on the sofa. James was surprised when Lewis switched of the TV. “Can we talk?”

James’ heart began to race. “What?”

“There are all sorts of loose ends but Innocent’s not interested. We caught the ripper, end off, as far as she’s concerned. Now I’ve got this murdered academic and a spate of pedigree dog and cat thefts over Summertown and Jericho way so I just don’t have time. Ngoti is alright, very thorough, but he’s no James Hathaway.”

“Thank you Sir. What is it you want me to do?”

“Visit the families, a courtesy, and tell them that the bastard will be away for life. Oh, I know they know that, but to have no follow on from us, when the crime was so bloody...”

“Fine Sir. I’ll need my badge.”

Lewis pulled it out of his suit pocket and gave it to James. “And those survivors, you make sure you visit them. I’m trusting you to be nice and diplomatic and oh – you’ll know what to say, what with your priestly training.”

James smiled. “I’ll do my best Sir.”

“Well, quid pro quo, as you might say. Give us your landlord details and I’ll pay your rent for the next six weeks, alright?”

“I... I better see to the dinner.” James stumbled up of the sofa, hiding tears of gratitude and relief. He really couldn’t tell Lewis about Ellis, now, could he? But a promise was a promise.

 

James decided to visit all the bereaved families before he started on the survivors. Mrs Conroy, Rachel’s mother, was doing no better than she had been a week after she lost her daughter. Again, James felt the overwhelming despair of helplessness for her. He silently prayed for her, and the family, struggling with the bereavement and the almost loss of the mother also. She had covered the sideboard with Rachel’s not very good junk art and it sat, gathering dust, as no one was allowed to touch it. Mr. Conroy and the remaining three girls were stunned and shocked, obviously, but were struggling on with life and their wife/mother.

Mrs Kirran was not much better. Anne and Richard met him at the door and thanked him for his drive down to Surrey. Anne made tea while Richard and James sat awkwardly in the huge lounge, French windows open onto a slopping garden. Anne hadn’t returned to school since Julian’s death and had missed her GCSEs but planned to return in October for resits but she had no plans for A levels, degrees or a career. She would remain at home for as long as her mother needed her. Richard said he would return to school and go to university as planned but was thinking now of joining the police force at graduate entry, like the good sergeant. At the moment he only coped by ‘running away into his mind’, spending all day and half the night locked in his room with his laptop, writing ‘good, old fashioned’ children’s adventure stories based on their own experiences. His tribute to Julian. Their Dad was at work all hours and when home, locked in his study, drinking.

The Love family were very stoical, nurturing and supportive of each other. A ‘shrine’ to Rowan had been set up in the front room ‘to help us, but particularly Tor’ Ali, the youngest girl said, smiling at her little silent brother, curled up with three cats and a dog on the floor beneath the fluffy pink glittery tribute to their sister. The mother had been found and returned home for the funeral, a small daughter in tow. It had turned out that their Gran had known all the time she’d run away pregnant to Cornwall and had not, as her family had been led to believe, been travelling the world ‘finding herself’. Just dealing with protracted post-natal depression following Tor, it seemed, and panicked when finding she was pregnant again. The family were welcoming and forgiving, though.

Lauren’s parents, whom he had had to phone of course, just had that sweet, educated middle class American lovely polite manner, thanking the kind Detective for the time and trouble to telephone to them personally. They were prepared to say that a secure mental health facility was the best place for the disturbed young man. They were heavily involved in campaigns against the death penalty and the war.

Cam had started a campaign to get street safety awareness and self defence classes on the National Curriculum for all girls in KS3 and 4.

Wherever he went, whomever he visited, James saw sad, unhappy people struggling to come to terms with their daughter’s, or son’s in the case of Julian, death in nasty circumstances. None seemed particularly bothered by the absence of a trial, most were even relieved as they were spared the spotlight of the media. All were glad their child’s attacker was locked away for good, where he could hurt no one else.

 

 

From; ellis.calixte@bfmod.gov.uk  
To: james.hathaway@thamesvalleypolice.gov.uk   
Sent: 2010.8.27 0428GMT

My dear, lovely Honey Boy,

I miss your long, long legs baby, and your tight arse. Want you so bad.

We’ve moved. Can’t say where. Bastard tribal elders turned out to be Taliban all the time. We were lucky to get out of there alive. On plains now. Bloody hot. Protecting Red Crescent and Oxfam. They are building a school and a hospital and some work for all the widows. Nice to see all the brightly coloured dress- trouser things and scarves, like so many brightly coloured birds, instead of hidden away in those blue body bag prisons. I’m gay, honey, don’t worry; I’m not looking like that. I’m talking politically baby.

I got all your e-mails and letters, and the photo. Thanks babe. What have you done to your lovely hair, sweetie?

Miss you. Kiss you. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

It took a month to contact and visit all the families of the victims. It was less than two weeks until he could formally return to work – unless the counsellor or Chief Superintendent Innocent changed their minds. He decided to visit George Kirran first, complicated as she was, she was less so than Rose Casson and Mouse would be difficult, as he hadn’t been murdered but he had been raped, and although James had been through rape many, many times, he wasn’t quite sure what to say to a heterosexual boy who’d experienced the same. Was it harder or easier to recover from – did you question who you were? Or did knowing that wasn’t something you naturally desired, with love, make it easier to move on and cope with intimacy? Or did he, James, just over analyse everything?

Besides, he’d already visited her cousins so she would be expecting him at some point.

A plump woman with tight curls opened the door, wiping floured hands on her apron, startling James, who had been expecting Mrs Frances Kirran.

“She’s out,” the woman explained. “I’m the help. Cook, clean, and that. Joan Bradshaw. You’d be wanting George though, sergeant?”

“Well, yes. Unless Professor Kirran is here?”

“Oh, he’s in college. Seems to live there these days. Likes the silence. I expect he’s messing about in his new lab. Better than here, let him blow up Balliol rather than here, I say. Tea, sergeant? Or coffee?”

“Coffee would be nice, thank you.”

She led him through the house to the back garden, over looking Wytham Woods (which Lewis seemed to hate almost pathologically – must find out why sometime, James told himself) on one side and Port Meadow on the other. The spires of Oxford floated on the sky line, as if they didn’t quite touch the horizon but hovered above it, golden in late summer sunshine, looking all the world like a floating fairy city from mythology or fantasy. The beauty caught in James’ throat. You forgot, among the crowds and traffic, the misery and crime and ordinariness, how spectacularly beautiful Oxford was.

Joan disappeared back in the house so James walked down the lawn to George, lying on a blanket, staring at the clouds, Timmy curled up beside her, snoring gently.

George shielded her eyes and looked up. Oh, it was the rather nice sergeant. James Hathaway was it? He’d razored his hair, his lovely curls were gone. She realised that some of the deep soulful eyes and pouting mouth she’d liked so much hand been enhanced by make-up, now gone. Even the mascara. His lashes looked strangely naked and wrong, blond. He was still lovely. He looked very vulnerable. George would look after him!

She sat up and listened to James explain why he was visiting. He had also brought presents – a new splendid collar and lead for Timmy in red leather and a book about dogs for her, but

“Don’t look inside until later,” he said cryptically.

Joanna returned with a tray of coffee and a jolly decent looking Victoria sponge cake.

They talked about Julian, the others, how George refused to go back to school and was starting a local sixth form college in September, she simply refused to go to a girls boarding school ever again. James sighed sympathetically and when he got up to leave he told her to now look in the book.

Inside there were three leaflets: one from the Maudsley Clinic in London on symptoms, characteristics and treatment for transsexuality, and a leaflet on the national help line for young gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transsexuals and a local young LGBT society.

“I think the nice sergeant is telling us something, Timmy!”

George spent the rest of the afternoon reading the Maudsley leaflet, ticking nearly every box, feeling equally hopeful and terrified, more scared than he’d ever been in his life.

 

It took three days to track Mouse down. A day to drive to South London, to the Eden Estate, a high-rise estate full of menace and threat, peeling paintwork, broken down old cars and fridges, youths of all colours in trackies and hoodies scowling at him as he parked and looked for the right block. He was glad he’d not dressed in a suit. The lift smelt of piss so he walked, which was a mistake because he ended up in pain, more pain than for the last two weeks. And all for no avail. An old lady called Mrs Scully who could have talked for England and kept Hathaway for half an hour on her doorstep, next door to Mouse’s empty flat, pointed out a prefab building surrounded by the only splash of colour in this grey jungle, flower and vegetables growing around the brightly decorated building, a colourful island in the ocean of grey concrete and tarmac.

The drugs rehab unit was busy and people eyed him suspiciously, the tall stranger. He flashed his warrant card and said he was looking for Mouse or his mother; it was a courtesy follow on from Thames Valley.

“I ain’t never met a pig who was courteous!” a tall skinny black man with dreads all the way down his back sneered.

“Well, now you have. We are always polite in the Thames Valley.”

“Doubt that, man. Got a sister over in Slough. Pigs are pigs as far as I can see. You, maybe? Follow me. It ain’t always this busy. The counsellor and the doctor are here, and that means methadone, man. I supposed to be doing crowd control. Not much good, am I?”

He pushed through the crowds outside and in the corridor to a side room where there appeared to be an art class. A woman with wrinkles by the dozen and multi coloured dreads looked up from bending over a young pregnant woman’s easel.

“Hey Jools. Got a yokel pig here, looking for Mouse and Magi.”

“Oh?” She straightened up, and with a squeeze of the young woman’s shoulder, crossed the room. “Do you have ID?”

James showed his card. “I’m looking for Magi and Mouse Kavannagh. It’s just a follow up, really, because there won’t be a trial.”

“Yeah. We heard about that. Bastard is a nutter. Well, that was obvious, wasn’t it? How many poor kids dead? And how many survivors? The news said two, but some papers said up to four?” she stared straight at him.

“Yeah. What’s that about? Eh?” added the young man.

“Sometimes the tabloids like to speculate, and sometimes they hit the truth, or leak information they shouldn’t. We had a survivor who was much younger. She escaped unharmed, actually.”

“How young? Come on –” she peered at his badge –“James. We are hardly gonna go to the Sun, now, are we?”

“She was eleven.”

“Jesus!” said the young man.

“One two three, Mouse, the kid with the dog, and this little girl, was the other one made up?”

“The Star said it was a pig,” said the guy.

James sniffed and lifted his chin, “Yeah. Yeah, he was.”

“Shit. That was a sting that went wrong.”

“No, just his life gone wrong again. As bloody always!” James snorted again, which turned into a swallowed sob.

“Hey baby,” the guy said, “come here. We didn’t mean nuttin’. Truth is we don’t know where they are, do we Jools?” He pulled James into an alarming hug, feeling much stronger than his frame suggested.

“Sort off. Oxford somewhere? Magi’s getting him settled or something. He’s going to do art there.”

“Oxford? Wow! Big up from street grafitti!”

“Not that sort of Oxford, you wassock!”

“Oh yeah.”

“Take James over to Fitz’s place, Luke, he may know more. I suppose I’ll better go check on the queues, see if Dr. Hargrew and Jenny want tea.”

“Come on, baby.” Luke pulled James back out of the room and back out of the building. He strode across the concrete land between the high concrete towers, approaching a gang of youths sipping cider and smoking. They all eyed James suspiciously.

“Hey, anyone seen Fitz?”

“Gone up west for his Dad,” one answered as another scowled deeply. The scowling one followed them as they carried on walking.

“Luke!” he called.

Luke turned around. “What, bro?”

“Be careful. If Dad hears, and look at you, holding his arm like that!” he hissed.

“It hain’t like that, hokay? This is a policeman from Oxford, come to see Mouse.”

“Mouse ain’t coming back here, never, you know what everyone is saying?”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on sergeant. I’ll walk you back to your car. You’ll find ’im in Oxford, no probs, yeah. Sorry about my little brother, thinking you were... Well, you know...”

They walked away, James shaking his arm free and leading the way to his car.

“What did he mean? Everyone is saying?” he demanded.

“They are saying there is no smoke without fire, that he must be gay.”

“That’s bollocks,” James said distinctly.

“Yep. This your car? Don’t suppose you have time for a coffee before you drive back, eh?”

“Do I have a target on my back?”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Yeah, sorry. Doing it now, assuming you’re gay because..”

“Actually, I am gay, but I have a boyfriend. He’s in Afghanistan, he’s a soldier. From Ghana.”

“Black? In the British Army? Gay?”

“Yep. These things are possible. He’s got medals, too. How old are you?”

“Twenty nine.”

“And hiding from your Dad?” James said sadly. “Is it really so hard to be black and gay?”

“Well, it hain’t a walk in the park. ’Ave you ’eard black lyrics about killing gays? ’Appens all the time in Jamaica and Hafrica.”

“But you are British,” James said and climbed into his car. He shut the door and muttered to himself. “Listen to me, like I have the right to talk to anyone about coming out. Do I have a bloody invisible sign on my back that only scary black men can see? Jonjo, Ellis, this guy...”

He looked back as he pulled out of the parking space. Well, I suppose Luke wasn’t scary, just thoughtless. And am I Ellis’ boyfriend? Well, he thinks I’m his wife and I promised Lewis I would finish with him but I don’t know how to, I just don’t know... he promised not to hurt me again and if Grace knows and doesn’t mind...

But it’s nice Lewis coming around. It’s nice cooking for him and it is nice watching TV together. And right now, he’s all that stands between me and homelessness, well, at least me and a horrid bedsit somewhere. I owe him.

But I promised Ellis I’d write and wear his ring.

But Lewis let me know he is bisexual.

Bisexual! Lewis!

But, then, he sees the ring and has said nothing.

Said nothing and tried nothing.

Oh God! What do you want?

Stupid question. I know the answer.

Celibacy.

Oh God! I’m so alone!

James put on rock music really loud for the rest of the drive home.

If it hadn’t been for his anti depressants, his painkillers and a large amount of Scotch James couldn’t have slept that night. The following morning he woke sluggish and tearful, which wasn’t good, because before he could find Mouse he had to go to the counselling Innocent had arranged and pretend to be fine, that he was so over what had happened, so over Ellis, Mortmaigne and all those men his father had taken him to, so over the seminary and Jonjo and Feadorcha...

Instead, in such a frame of mind, all his anger at Mortmaigne and his father poured out in an hour long rant of hatred and blame.

His counsellor told him it was a productive session.

Was it?

Yes, he was no longer blaming himself.

Did he? Blame himself?

Yes, he had. His Catholic counsellor and confessors hadn’t helped with that. He’d been five! Five! How had it been his fault then? Or even later? Thirteen is young, a child, you do as your parents tell you, you expect them to...

James put his head in his hands and sobbed, sitting in his car for over an hour after his session. You expect your parents to protect you, not say, ‘oh alright, hurt my kid, just give me money for doing so’. His Dad even used to watch sometimes. The ones he didn’t trust to follow his rules, he supposed. The three rules: condoms, no marking where it can be seen, no marking at all the week before he goes back to school. £100 an hour. And what an Earth happened to that money, the shit hole of a cottage they lived in in Faringdon, the rust heap of a third hand Land Rover his dad drove, the patched and mended clothes his mum wore. Horses and beer, he supposed.

Why did he always lie to himself? Pretend it stopped when they left Crevecoeur? Because it was easy to see his Mum and Dad under the same threat he was – no job and no home, but afterwards, his Dad had just got greedy. So what, he was already damaged goods.

Too damaged for Robbie Lewis, too vile and sinful and wicked for such a wonderful man!

Someone was knocking on his window. He looked up. How weird, it looked like Eve Casson. He’d been thinking to go there today and leave tracing Mouse another day.

“Are you alright darling?”

He wound the window down. “Um.”

“Oh. I know you, don’t I? You’re the darling gay sergeant that came the day Rosy Pose got in to dreadful trouble. Are you okay? Well, no darling, of course you’re not, you’ve been sitting there crying for over an hour.”

“Have you been watching?”

“No darling. I’ve been close to crying too. My car won’t start. Its just there.” She pointed diagonally opposite in the car park. “I’ve been painting the new Children’s Hospital wards, lots of lovely murals to cheer the little ones up. What about you?”

“Psychotherapist.”

“Oh dear. Stuff coming up, darling. Friends are much better for you. What have you done with your lovely yellow hair, cutting it so short? And no make-up. I loved the way you’d done your face that day, and the following days. Reminded me of me. No mascara and you’re naked with such blond eye lashes aren’t we darling?”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“Well, it just won’t start darling sergeant.”

“My name is James.” James got out of his car and had a look. “I’m not really an expert,” he said. “My Dad could strip an engine down and put it back together like that!” he snapped his fingers. “Put up shelves, mend sinks, all sorts. I was such a disappointment to him, what with piano and guitar and books. The only practical thing I could do when I was a kid was bake a cake. He never liked that. Perhaps it was guilt!” he snorted. He sat in the driver’s seat and turned the engine over. “Well, Mrs Casson, no knowledge needed. You’ve run out of petrol.”

“Oh, is that why it was making that spluttering noise as I came up the hill?”

“Probably. Fortunately, I’ve a can in the boot. It’s the sort of thing we policemen carry about, you know? I’ll get it for you.”

Eve followed him to his car boot. “You’re not at work today, are you darling?”

“I haven’t been at work for weeks.”

“Want to tell me why? We could have coffee. There’s a new Starbucks in the new Children’s Hospital. My treat darling.”

 

The following day saw James up bright and early, showering, putting on tight jeans and mascara and going shopping, buying huge A2 canvases, a portfolio and a bag of acrylic paints before driving up to the Traveller camp to find Amelia.

He did better than that, he found a large tent pitched between Amelia’s old van and a newer VW van, belonging to Mouse’s friends Finn and Dizzy. Lucky, and a huge, skinny hairy dog that answered to Leggit, came rushing up to him, sniffing his legs and Lucky jumping up, barking joyfully, recognizing his rescuer.

They made him disgusting herbal tea, but one look at his face and he was offered apple juice. He sat there, Amelia chatting over nothing, Finn and Dizzy explaining the plan – they were settling down for a while and Mouse was moving in with them, going part time to art college and part time to sixth form college to redo his GCSEs. He’d sat them after leaving hospital, but of course, failed the lot. They talked as if he were their little brother, although they were lovers.

“All sorts of families, sergeant,” Amelia said.

While he sat, Moondog appeared. James felt himself involuntarily tense, but Moondog just said hi and cadged a cigarette and wandered away.

“He didn’t mean to creep you out. It’s just his way,” Amelia said, then looked up. “Oh hi. Magi, this is Sergeant Hathaway.”

Magi sat down, a small, frail, skinny woman with no make-up and short spiky hair. “Hello, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. Thank you for the reference.”

James shrugged, “Mouse has a real talent, he just needs support. Tagging public building would eventually lead to prison. I was hoping to see him.”

“I left him in town. He met your friend, Phillip, the autistic one. He went with him to the river.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” James quickly explained why he was here, and produced the gift, explaining it was from Inspector Lewis too (well, Lewis had given him his credit card to buy the gifts for the three survivors when James had explained his idea). Magi told him how Mouse was doing. He was a quieter, more thoughtful boy than before, although Finn and Dizzy argued he always was. He was less angry at the world, more grateful. He had finished seeing the counsellor, but could go back any time he needed. He was focused on his art now, instead of graffiti, he was using charcoal a lot, but a lot of what he sketched were painful to look at, full of dead dogs and mutilated boys and dead soldiers.

“But it’s his way of coping sergeant.”

“It’s probably a good way of coping, I would think.” James stood up. “It was lovely to meet you Magi. Say hello to Mouse for me. He has my card.”

She smiled. “We’ll invite you to his first exhibition.”

“I’ll forward to it.” He smiled back and left, long legged happy strides back to his car.

 

That afternoon, as arranged the previous day, James arrived at teatime at the Casson house. He brought with his a small book of Michelangelo sketches, a huge bag of damaged tubes of paint and a bunch of permanent rose coloured roses for Rose.

An hour and a half later James felt strange, and realised the strange feeling was an almost belonging, a new feeling of contentment and relaxation, of safety. Eve, in her chaotic, messy way, had embraced him into the family they way the disabled girl, Sarah, and the fat boy, David, seemed to have been. He had been to provide support on Lewis’ instruction, but somehow, he had been adopted.

Rose had thanked him for the presents and point blanked asked if he were gay and he, for the first time in his life, replied with a straightforward ‘yes’. David made tea and Indigo offered fried corned beef sandwiches, which he’s declined, but when Eve had said the ‘darling sergeant’ needed pancakes, he’d not objected.

Indigo and David left for the attic, where guitar and drums could be heard, James having already admired and strummed Indigo’s guitar, and Rose dispatched to the kitchen, where she began a huge painting of her roses, giving them all faces and names of the victims whilst eating most of the pancakes. And once they were gone, he sat in silent female solidarity, feeling their sympathy and understanding, as Eve, Caddy, Saffron and Sarah all stared at him in a quiet way until he exploded,

“I’m a bloody idiot!”

“No darling, you were just in love,” reassured Eve

“But I don’t even know if I was, but he said he loved me and...”

“It’s nice to be loved, isn’t it, when you’ve had none?” said Saffron.

After an hour in this strange, cluttered, disorganised room surrounded by weird, creative, clever females the like of which James had never met, he stopped blaming himself for the abuse Ellis had inflicted on him.

When he left he sat in his car, smoking and thinking, still not having a clue what to do. He couldn’t dump him in Afghanistan, but he couldn’t contemplate dumping him face to face. That thought was terrifying.

The there was Lewis. He loved Robbie Lewis, always had, and suddenly the man was in his flat every day, asking for nothing but food and companionable silence in front of the TV, making no more judgements or criticisms. Just there. The suddenly bisexual Lewis. Or, the fact of his sexuality was newly known to James. Plus he was now paying his rent! Literally, his rent, asking for nothing in return. A million miles from the ‘rent’ his father charged.

What to do? What to do?

He put on the news and heard the announcement of fatalities in Kandahar province and felt sick. He’d promised to wait, to write, to pray for his safety. He looked at his hand and held it up, the too big ring slipping slightly down his left ring finger. This was the first man he’d ever had consensual sex with, he should be committed to him. As if he were a woman. Which he wasn’t, naturally. Which made it all a sin, anyway, one man, a dozen, love or lust. As far as the Catholic Church went there was no difference, it was all a sin.

He didn’t know what to do! He was frightened of leaving Ellis, he made him feel wanted and needed and cherished as much as he had made him afraid and anxious. But but...

So had Mortmaigne. His Dad hit him and belittled him and his Mum put his Dad first, always. His lordship had encouraged his studies in everything, not just music, opened his horizons, told him he was special, made him feel safe as much as he made him feel sick and dirty.

What a thing to admit to himself!

Lewis makes you safe, whispered a small still, quiet, voice in his mind, safe and respected like never in your life. It’s why you love him.

Only a week until he was back to work and another three months until Ellis was back: He would carry on writing but see where this non sex non dating thing with Lewis went.

 

 

From; ellis.calixte@bfmod.gov.uk  
To: james.hathaway@thamesvalleypolice.gov.uk  
Sent: 2010.09.06 1101GMT

Baby!

I am happy you are back at work but I am not happy that you are spending so much time with your boss. Don’t forget you told me how you feel about him. And he had big feelings for you too, baby.

Oh, I know he is straight. So you say. So let’s call his feelings paternal. But no one is 100% anything, honey. He is a good, honourable man. Because of that, and only that, I think, is the only reason that he and that fat DC – Cooper, Hooper? – and the cute blond uniformed PC – Bains of something? – didn’t beat the crap out of me. You think your colleagues laugh at you and don’t respect you. Ain’t true baby. They would have happily torn me limb from limb for hurting you.

I hate myself for that and I am working on it honey. My temper that is. I love you, my sweet boy, I don’t want to hurt you anymore.

But remember, you promised me. You are mine. You wear my ring.

 

From; ellis.calixte@bfmod.gov.uk  
To: james.hathaway@thamesvalleypolice.gov.uk  
Sent: 2010.09.06 1152GMT

Honey! My sweet boy!

I know you tell me you spent that much time with him before you met me, but it is different now. Then you were innocent, a good Catholic virgin, pining for what you couldn’t have. You have experience now, and he knows what you are and what you like. You take baby, and that can turn on straight men too.

Ellis

From; ellis.calixte@bfmod.gov.uk  
To: james.hathaway@thamesvalleypolice.gov.uk  
Sent: 2010.09.06 1202GMT

James, my golden honey boy,

I’m not accusing you of anything. I trust you. I don’t trust him with you. He might be straight, but he’s old, probably desperate for a shag – how many years since his wife died? And he likes you and you are putting it out, sweetie. You might not think you are, but you are.

Since you mentioned it in your last letter, baby, I can’t do the divorce and civil partnership thing. I hear what you are saying. Yes, I get to stay if I’m married to you, and yes we would be okay financially. But what about my kids? I don’t know if they would get residency. I’d have to be their main carer, which means you would have to be their main carer and I can’t see you looking after two kids full time and working. And what about them, how would they feel being picked up at school and nursery by a white male step mum, huh? Think it through James baby!

But the main thing is Grace. I can’t do that. She would be deported. To what? Go back childless to her own family, to the absolute poverty of her family? To the traditional attitudes to a woman returned to her family? I might be a bastard but I’m not that much of a bastard. And I’m not happy about sending her back to my family to live on my father’s compound. Not good baby, for reasons I just can’t tell you.

You asked about polygamy, remember? Grace knows about you and always knew about me. You wear my ring. You just have to be happy with being my unofficial second wife, won’t you baby? I wish things were different, baby. I love you. I would pay many cows for you, whole bloody herds, for you, if I were straight and you were a girl. But we are what we are, and God hates us, doesn’t he?

Be happy with being my second one baby, you are my favourite one. Because you are mine, like no one I’ve ever had before. I love you, my golden honey boy. You are mine. Mine. Keep that ring on your finger and your boss’ hands off you.

Sometimes, memories of what we have together, of what we did, and Hope and Michael, are the only things that keep me going. It’s bloody bleak and pointless here. Truly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


	13. An ending and new beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A death leads to the possibility of happy ever after

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeep!

It’s seven o’clock on a Wednesday morning, the 8th September 2010 and you’re listening to Today with James Naughtie and me John Humphrys. In a moment we’ll be asking if the Coalition can survive the latest crisis and then we will consider whether the so called Oxford Ripper case could have been solved more quickly if the Oxfordshire Police forensic service hadn’t had its funding cut. Coming up also in this hour the Thought for the Day with Rabbi Lionel Blue and later we’ll be discussing why school curriculum history is selective, patchy and too confusing for many primary school children. But first, the news with Charlotte Green.

Good morning. The soldier who died in the early hours of yesterday morning has been named as Group Captain Ellis Calixte, 47, father of two. Captain Calixte was decorated for valour earlier this year when his quick thinking saved the UNICEF School for Girls just outside Kandahar. He had previous commendations for bravery in Iraq and Northern Ireland. There are calls for....

 

Robbie Lewis looked up from his ironing board and smiled. He began to whistle cheerfully as he continued his ironing.

 

A couple of hours later Lewis still couldn’t keep the smile off his face, or the happy whistling, as he carried a cup of coffee to his desk.

Innocent popped out of her office as he passed.

“Ah, Lewis. Have you heard the news by any chance this morning?”

“Yes Ma’am,” his smile spilled out into his voice.

“H’m. Not sure if you should... Never mind. James has phoned in sick. When you’ve got a minute I’d like you to pop round. Check he’s okay, that sort of thing. Probably not want to have that silly smile still on your face when you do.”

“Of course not Ma’am. I take it by news you are referring to Radio 4 championing our fight to reinstate all our forensics rather than contract out? Good news, I would have thought...”

“You know very well that is not what I mean, and for all he was a complete prick and hurt James he leaves a wife and two small children.”

“I know Ma’am, I know. He put his wife in hospital too, though, didn’t he?”

 

Half an hour later Lewis’ phone rang. He was in his office chasing paperwork on the dognapping case. It was Laura Hobson.

“Have you heard the news?”

“Oh yes.”

“Robbie, there’s no need to sound so smug. It belittles you, you know that? For all that bastard did, James thought he was in love. How is he?”

“Off sick. Innocent told me to go round, check up on the lad. I would any way.”

“Don’t take advantage Robbie.”

“This is me, Laura, as if I would...”

Laura interrupted him. “But you are not yourself. The Robbie Lewis I know would never gloat at anyone’s death, especially not like this.”

“Like what?”

“I thought you heard the news?”

“After the name I didn’t really pay attention.”

“Robbie! Too busy gloating? Stop it.”

“Aye, you saw what that bastard did to him. He needed surgery!”

“Technically, the surgery was because of the Ripper, not Ellis. But I take your point. I did overhear a very private, secret almost wedding between them, you know? James will be feeling... God I don’t know!”

“What news Laura?”

“Well, he’s being repatriated today, we should get his body in a few hours. It won’t be pretty.”

“Yeah. An explosion. ’Course it won’t.”

“They are saying he got everyone away, that he shielded the blast and because of that no one else was injured. But he threw himself on a bloody bomb he couldn’t defuse. That says suicide to me. Take bloody good care of James, Robbie.”

“Always.”

 

Lewis knocked and rang at the front door for a while and then went down to the window and banged and banged on it. He could see James curled up on the sofa through the window blinds, watching TV, a pot of coffee and a bottle of wine, cup, glass and milk bottle on the coffee table, guitar next to him. He was still in his pyjamas and red eyed, a box of tissues between him and his guitar, screwed up, used ones scattered. There was no way he could justify breaking in, he had no immediate concerns. He went back to the front door and leant on the bell and at the same time dialled James’ number, he had it on speed dial.

It worked. Eventually James opened the door to stare, blank eyed, impassive, at his boss.

“Oh. It’s you Sir. What do you want?”

“To see if you’re okay. Well, obviously not okay, but coping... Are you alright, James? Are you?” Robbie searched James’ face for clues. “God knows I know some of what you are feeling.”

“Oh yeah!” James sneered, suddenly angry. “With uniform coming to tell you, to fetch you. Going up to identify her body, saying goodbye! I had to hear on the fucking news!” he wailed. “Just... just piss off, I want to be on my own!”

“Happily, James, happily. I’m always happy to do what you want or need, you know that don’t you love? But I’m here under orders, Innocent sent me to check up on you.”

“Spying on me!”

“You’ve been back at work for two days James, after three months on sick for... for...” Robbie floundered. He hadn’t really had depression or a break down. He wouldn’t be back in CID at all if it had been a break down. No, more, well, whatever it was, James was bloody strong. Strong willed and stroppy.

“For what? Being gay? For being raped? What? You can tell the Chief I’m fine, okay? Fuck off.”

Robbie put his foot in the door. “Ten minutes, alright? And it’s cos we care.”

James sighed and turned to walk from the front door to his flat. Robbie followed. As they got to James’ living room the TV was showing footage of a cortège coming through Wootten Bassett. James glared momentarily at Robbie, as if it were his fault he’d missed the beginning of the coverage, and then sat down heavily, eyes burning with unshed tears as he stared and stared at the car carrying the coffin. After the segment ended and the news moved to the next item James switched off the television and sighed heavily before snuffling, as if unable to contain the tears any more. Robbie reached out to touch his shoulder. James flinched.

“James...?”

James looked up, eyes rimmed red. “How long?”

“What?”

“That was an hour ago. How long?”

“What, James? Are you okay? Is that...?”

“To the JR mortuary? How long?”

Lewis shrugged. “Depends on traffic and speed. An hour and half, maybe?”

James stood up. “I’d like you to leave now Sir.”

“No bloody way, man. I won’t leave you like this.”

“I’m going to shower and get dressed. That was all I was waiting for.” He sniffed. “Life goes on, doesn’t it? He has a widow and his kids to mourn him. It’s not like I was... I was his second...” James snorted and held up his head. “Not like he was my husband or anything,” he said glaring angrily at his boss, as if he were the one who’d planted the bomb.

“Are you sure you...?”

“Please. Sir. I just want to be alone,” James managed to get out half way civilly.

 

Asha Mirza rushed in to her tutor’s office, a little out of breath.

“Dr. Hobson! Dr. Hobson! Someone’s in the mortuary, shouting for you and demanding to see the latest army fatality. He seems a little unbalanced. Shall I call security?”

“Show me.”

Laura followed the slender hijabed figure through the corridor and down to the lift and out in the bleak, chilly Level 1 walk through that connected the JR2 and A and E to trauma and the mortuary/pathology. She wasn’t surprised to see James Hathaway arguing with Rawbone and another of her students, Sophia Smit.

“Please! You’ve got to let me see him! Please!”

He was dressed in cargos and a sloppy, dirty fleece and his short hair stood on end, unbrushed, not helped by his constant running one hand over his hair. His other hand he was using to gesticulate with desperation.

“Please!”

“James. Come on.” Laura put her hand between his shoulder blades. He shrugged her hand away and span around.

“Please! Dr. Hobson. Laura. You’ve got to let me say goodbye. You have to!”

“James! James! Calm down. Please. Otherwise we will call security.”

James stared at her and wiped the back of his hand across his nose, smearing snot across his cheek. “Please,” he whimpered.

“Come and have a cup of coffee in my office and we can talk. Come on,” she took his arm and started to guide him back down the corridor. He suddenly seemed to be aware he was being guided in the wrong direction and turned back and pushed past Rawbone and threw himself at the door to the examination room that contained the pieces of Ellis Calixte. He pressed his palms and cheek to the door.

“Let me see him,” he moaned. He sank down to the floor and leaned on the door.

“James.”

Laura was aware of Rawbone ushering the two first years out of the way. After they had gone he put his hand to his ear in a phone gesture. “Lewis?” he mouthed. She nodded. James was now banging his head on the door.

“James, I can’t. Firstly you are not next of kin, but even if I could bend the rules it’s not something you want to see.”

“I’ve seen bodies before...”

“Not like this James. And I hope you don’t ever have to sweetie,” she reached out to stroke his hair as you would a child. James flinched and pushed her away, standing up and shouting again to be able to see Ellis.

 

When Robbie arrived, running as fast as he could from the trauma unit car park, having just abandoned his car rather than parked, he could see James struggling, a security guard holding each arm, screaming incoherently. He could make out words such as ‘see him’ and ‘let me’ and ‘need to’ and ‘please’ but strung together randomly. Alarmingly Laura was leaning heavily on the wall by the door, the beginnings of a vicious bruise above her right eye.

Robbie mouthed ‘alright?’ to Laura before he showed his card to the security guards and took hold of James. “Calm down.”

“You’ve got to let me see him!”

“James!” Robbie was aware of Laura telling the security guards they would be fine.

“Please! It’s my fault! It’s all my fault!” James broke down into sobs. Lewis pulled him into a hug and James put his head on his shoulder and cried. “Please,” he whispered, “please tell Dr. Hobson to let me say goodbye. I have to say sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Laura came up to the men and put her arms around James from behind and the three of them stood there, Robbie and Laura either side of him, holding him tightly, a Hathaway sandwich, letting him cry.

Once they had got him calm enough to manoeuvre they guided him to Robbie’s car. Robbie silently handed the keys to Laura and got in the back with James.

It was hours before James spoke. Laura and Robbie both took the afternoon of work, and after going to Laura’s house, she phoned James’ psychotherapist and made an appointment first thing in the morning. Robbie had expected James to object, but he had been mute and blank eyed, submitting without word to Laura washing his face with a warm flannel, taking off his dirty fleece – he had his tree tee shirt underneath – and shoes, and wrapping him in her quilt, she guided him to her sofa. He lay down with out a word. She made a pot of tea, and she and Robbie sat either side of him, his head on Laura’s lap, she stroking his hair, and his feet on Robbie’s lap, he massaging them gently.

James was lost to himself, somewhere locked in misery and guilt. It had happened again. The world might think Ellis a hero, and he was, many times over (but so was Lewis, a small voice told James’ heavy mind) but he had killed himself. James had told him to go get himself blown up – ‘why don’t you piss off and get yourself blown sky high and let me go, you selfish bastard’ had been the reactive e-mail he’d written, disappointed and guilt ridden Ellis wouldn’t ‘marry’ him – that they couldn’t have a legal civil partnership - hurt by the inference he couldn’t be a good step-parent and angry at the suggestion that he wasn’t safe with Lewis. Robbie Lewis was the safest man he had ever known, no one had made him feel so safe, not even his own mother! How dare Ellis suggest otherwise.

He’d regretted it instantly, but he and Lewis had been called out to a body, drug overdose, accidental as it happened, so he hadn’t been able to send an apology until much later, six hours later. Too late. That night in bed with Radio 3, when the death of an officer in his forties had been announced, he’d known really. He had just hoped and prayed and blanked it from his mind, curling up to his pillow and closing his eyes, remembering the feel of being in Ellis’ arms after sex, the broadness of his muscled torso, the strength of his arms holding him, the wonderful safe feeling of being held by such a ‘real’ man after the terrifying feeling of being possessed and had by him.

He’d never been safe though, not really. And now he was. Ellis was never coming back. He had wanted to look at his face, kiss him, say goodbye. He must have been mad, he thought, his mind travelling back from it’s far away recesses. Ellis threw his body on to an UED. There was no Ellis, no body of Ellis, only bits. And Hobson was right, he couldn’t cope with seeing that, and he hoped he never would have to.

The beautiful, gorgeous strong body that took him to the edge of ecstasy and broke his bones, kissed him and bruised him, held him so tenderly and overpowered him so easily.

Gone.

He was free. He wanted to be free.

But not like this. He had wanted to be strong, or had wanted Ellis to change, if he was brutally honest with himself.

More rational, less overwhelmed with numbing, bleak empty mind pain that he wanted to end by nothing other that either screaming and smashing his head repeatedly into the wall, he realised he was wrapped in something soft and warm, head on someone’s lap while they stroked his hair, someone small who smelt feminine. His feet were being gently and softly massaged, and he strangely could recognise the feel of those hands – Robbie Lewis.

He remembered being desperate for his parents to cuddle him when his Grandpa died; when Augustus had introduced him to those – things – in the Summerhouse. After his Mum knew about what was going on with his lordship, after his father told her to keep quiet, she was always awkward about touching him, her eyes always full of sorrow, making him feel more dirty than ever. Now, here he was, between two people that cared, except he didn’t want Robbie to be his father, and he certainly didn’t want Robbie to be married to Laura!

But it was nice. All sorts of families Amelia had said at the New Age Traveller site, talking of Mouse and Finn and Dizzy, big brother and sister that weren’t at all that had acted like surrogate mummy and daddy when Mouse had been small.

Nice.

“This is nice,” he mumbled. “Nobody has ever done this, comforted me and looked after me like this.”

Across James’ long, curled up body in the quilt Robbie and Laura exchanged horrified looks.

“Not even as a wee lad? Not then?”

“Not your parents?”

Robbie and Laura spoke together.

James made a scoffing noise and tried to sit up. He told them it was his fault and burst into tears again, softer weeping, not hysterics. He explained about the e-mail. He was reassured that he had to do it, he had to break free; otherwise he’d have been back in hospital. It wasn’t his fault. He desperately tried to believe them.

“There is no indication it was suicide,” Laura said firmly. “He made a split second decision in a war zone. If he’d had jumped the other way he could have lost his legs, maybe still died, and there would have been a lot more injuries to others. You’re not to blame James, really, you’re not.”

Robbie got up and came back with cocoa, traditional like his Granny made. James, leaning on Laura, still wrapped in the quilt but sitting up, sniffed it suspiciously.

“What’s in it? Newkey Brown?”

“How d’ye guess?” Robbie laughed. “No. But there’s whisky. Help you sleep. We can stay here and I’ll drive you home tomorrow and then to the hospital to see your quack. Innocent’s got you signed off sick for the rest of this week.”

“I want to come in, sir. I want to keep busy.”

“See what the counsellor said tomorrow, James,” Laura said.

 

A week went by, James in work but on anti depressants, Lewis watching over him like an old mother hen, returning to the pattern of always eating together, but his time going to the Trout first and then to a take away before on to James’ flat. They were silent together mostly, talking about work or the news or the TV, never Ellis or how James was feeling. Lewis was there, and knew James would talk if he needed to, and hopefully knew that Lewis was there for him, not judgemental, accepting.

Eight days after the day of the news breaking concerning Ellis’ death James had just returned to the office with coffee for both of them when a young uniformed woman knocked at Lewis’ office door.

“Sarge?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a woman at front desk for you. A baby and two kids, looks like she’s been crying. Won’t give her name, says you can help and only you. ‘Please, Detective Sergeant James Hathaway, please?’ is all she says. She seems so sad and vulnerable, the desk sarge didn’t want to kick her out.”

“I’ll come down in a minute. Thanks.”

“James?” Lewis asked, worried. They had no outstanding serious investigations at that time and James had that little puzzled frown that normally meant he was dealing with something personal and hidden. Lewis was finally beginning to recognize it. “Want me to come?”

James looked down and bit at his thumbnail, sighing. He looked up, serious pale eyes. “Please. Sir.”

They went down the stairs in silence. James’ visitor had been shown into an interview room and given a cup of tea. Her daughter had been presented with paper and crayons and she said beside her mother, drawing princesses. A boy of about two was running around the table making plane noises and a small newborn baby slept in a car seat placed on the table. She stood up, wringing her hands. She had lots of little hennaed plaits, ending in black beads, a long tight skirt, tee shirt and cardigan, all in shades of red.

“You are James Hathaway?”

“Yes.”

“I am Grace Calixte.”

James stared. “Hello Mrs Calixte,” Lewis said for him.” I’m Inspector Lewis, James’ boss and friend. Why are you here?”

“Please. I am sorry. I didn’t know where to go, who to trust. I need help, advice. I am so sorry. I would have invited you to the funeral, but his father flew over and how could I, they gave him full honours? I wanted you to be there.”

“Um. What’s the problem?”

“I would prefer to speak alone.”

“Tell you what, how about I take these two for an ice cream and over to the swings. Hey? Would you like that?” Lewis swooped down and grabbed Michael, swinging him over his head. He laughed. Hope pushed away her colouring and leapt up.

“Me too! Me too!”

“Thank you Inspector.”

“Call me Robbie. And the same goes for you two, eh?” And with a child, giggling, under each arm, he exited the room.

James indicated Grace sit down and did so himself, opposite.

“I have to move. They have given me one week. My father-in-law sent money and the church will help. But now I have a letter from the Home Office.” She pushed a letter across the table at James. He read it, horrified. “I promised Ellis, I will not let his bastard brother touch his kids, but I must go to my father-in-law, how can I go to my family? My children, they are British...”

“What about...?” James blushed and looked at the baby. He was as black as his mother. “What about the baby’s father.”

“It was an arrangement,” Grace said with dignity. “Ellis said one of each was enough. He would not come near me. He had you.”

Not nine months ago, thought James. “Oh,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say. He picked up the formal looking letter again and reached for his phone.

“I have a friend,” he said, “well, old school friend, but we sort of... Doesn’t matter. He’s a human rights barrister. I’ll give him a call. If he can’t help I’m sure he’ll know who can.”

“I can’t afford...”

“We’ll sort something out. Your husband died for this country, imagine the media interest.”

“Thank you. Ellis said you were special. I thought you would hate me.”

“Likewise,” James said, dialling his phone. “If all else fails, I’ll just have to marry you. Did Ellis’ older brother...?... Oh. Hi Charles. It’s James. James Hathaway. Yeah. Long time...”

James giggled like a schoolgirl, Grace thought, looking at him as he talked through the fact that she was to be deported, children too, after her husband had just died for Queen and country. He got off the phone, sorted.

“Fine. He wants to you ring him, he will put you in touch with a friend who works here, in Oxford, and he will pay, or rather, he knows a charity that will.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

James hurriedly scribbled the number down and pushed it across the table. “Not a problem, I know Ellis wanted his kids raised in the UK. I’m doing this for him, okay?”

“I am so sorry. I am. Things could have been...”

“We’ll never know now, will we?” James said, meaning which one of them Ellis would have chosen. But he had been right; Grace would have been deported if he had divorced her. He stood up. “Come on, let’s get your children. Robbie will have taken them to the play park around the corner.”

“It was very good of him.”

“He is very good. He loves children, has two of his own, and is about to be a Granddad. He’s very kind.”

“So are you.”

“Maybe I’m kind because he’s taught me.”

Just then the baby woke up, crying.

“He’s hungry,” Grace said.

“A boy?”

“I’ve called him Ellis. Is that sad of me?”

James smiled, “It’s a very good name, and you are allowed to be sad.”

Grace smiled back, “So are you. Can I feed him here?”

“I’ll fetch the others.”

As he walked across the car park to a cut through to an estate play park behind the Thames Valley HQ he did feel a bit more positive. Seeing such new life, seeing that tiny little fist reach out to Grace... A brand new Ellis, with, hopefully, a much better start in life.

Walking back felt even better. He took a drowsy Michael from Robbie, and the boy instantly snuggled up against him, sucking his thumb and falling asleep. He held one of Hope’s hands, Robbie the other, and they swung her all the way back, she keeping up a non-stop chatter. This was what Robbie Lewis missed, he thought, having never before thought about children other than his own childhood. And here he was, unable to ever touch Ellis again, touching something amazing, something that had come from Ellis. He felt weepy again, but didn’t show it. How could he cry for Ellis now, in front of his children? Did they know? Did they understand? He looked over Hope’s head and Robbie caught his gaze and smiled. James lost himself in that smile.

 

Life went on much as it had before, deaths and assaults and robberies and the ensuing paperwork; the Trout and meals and TV with Robbie Lewis; band practice and gigs, Robbie Lewis always taking him and staying to listen. Innocent seemed unbelievably stressed and James could tell Robbie was worried over something, but he didn’t share, but that was fine, as he was never put under any pressure to talk about anything that was going on in his head either. James maintained contact, sometimes, with Mouse, as he had Philip. Philip seemed to have taken Mouse under his wing, which was a curious state of affairs, but Mouse said he liked Philip’s lack of curiosity or shock at what he’d been through, unlike others, as at college, people remembered his attack in the media. James also stayed in touch with the Cassons, and if he wasn’t with Robbie he went round to eat, although he usually ended up cooking, if Indigo wasn’t around. Rose didn’t like him, but in a strangely nice way, but then eventually got used to him and he was added, with his guitar in one hand, saucepan in the other, to her kitchen mural. Grace moved off the base and on to a new housing estate in Didcot, so Hope’s schooling wasn’t upset, or her friendships at the church, Grace’s too. They kept in touch. The Home Office had backed off and given her temporary leave to stay which the solicitor felt sure could be turned into permanent residency or even citizenship. He found it impossible to go back to mass, but was pointed to an Anglican church in Summertown with incredibly liberal views on homosexuality, and after a few weeks over came his Catholic reticence and took communion there. He began to feel quietly content with himself.

Robbie Lewis’ proposal, when it came, was like a bolt of lightening, taking his breath away and lighting him up. Considering Robbie’s state when he returned to their office late one night, it would have been the very last thing he could have guessed at. He’d been called into a meeting with Innocent some hours ago. James, loyally, had waited as one by one everyone else went home, giving up on work and catching up with music documentaries on BBC4iplayer, making coffee and robbing Robbie’s secret Mars Bar stash, jacket and shoes off, feet up on his desk.

“Hell hell damn and fucking hell!” were Robbie Lewis’ words of greeting as he stomped into his office.

“Sir?” James slid his feet off the desk and sat upright.

“Don’t you fucking sir me, it’s out of hours and I’m almost out of here. Thirty one bloody years I’ve given the police, and this is... Hell! I could almost have one of your fags.”

“Um, I could make some coffee?” offered James.

“Na, forget it,” Robbie said, shrugging off his jacket and undoing his tie and yanking it off. He rolled up his sleeves but then reached over and sipped James’ coffee before ruffling James hair. “I’m so glad you grew it back. You look lovely. You always look lovely.”

“Sir?”

“I’m nearly sixty, do you know that pet?”

“Yes.”

“And it this rationalized world, where not enough people have come forward with voluntary retirement and redundancy, then those of us too old are given the boot.”

“Eh? What?”

“I’m to take early retirement, as in effect four weeks from today.”

“Fuck!” James stood up, shocked.

“You’ll be next lad. Poor Jean, she has to make cuts of up to one third. Insubordination. Misleading. With holding evidence. Lying. Off sick for stress. Anti depressants. Oh yes. She’ll be talking to you on Monday.”

“What?” James sat down again, shoulders slouching.

“She’ll probably give you the choice between dismissal – save the force money there – or voluntary redundancy. Take the money, please James; don’t be proud.”

“The bitch.”

“She doesn’t want to James, alright? She hasn’t a choice.

“Um... I don’t know what to say. I turned down that offer of a junior fellowship.”

“I know you did love, I know you did.” Robbie sighed and rolled his shoulders and stood straight. “But I’ve been doing some hard thinking.”

“Yes?”

“And I’ve got two proposals to run by you, okay?”

James pupils dilated in shock and something. Robbie chuckled. All in good time, lad, he thought. “As I’ve said before, we make a pretty good detective, between us. Now, I know it’ll be boring and routine, mostly, not like on the TV, but here’s what I suggest: we sink your redundancy money, my pension lump sum, the money from my house and Val’s insurance and we set us as private detectives. What do you say to that?”

“I’m speechless, Sir. I don’t know what to say.”

“Take you time to think things over. But it brings me on to my second one, James. Now, I’ve got used to you, I like you around me, it’s comfortable. Now I know you’ve got issues, you’ve always had issues, what with your faith and your childhood and that, and Ellis, the bastard, piled a whole heap more, but I don’t want to let you go. We don’t need to do anything you don’t want, which is why I’m skipping a few steps...”

“What sort of steps?”

“Dating, kissing and you know... “

James smiled mischievously. “I know,” he said wickedly.

“But... Oh, hell, give us a minute, I’m going to do this properly.” Robbie Lewis got down on one knee. “Will you marry me James?”

James stared, holding his hand over his mouth.

“Well, I know it’s not technically called marriage, but same thing, right?”

James continued to stare at his boss, his friend, on one knee in front of him.

“I know you are pedantic sod, so alright, will you enter into civil partnership with me?

“Please?

“At least say something, even if it’s no. This is crippling me bloody knees. Did I mention I was nearly 60?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what, that I’m nearly 60?”

“No. Well that as well. Yes. As in yes please. Yes. Yes, I will marry you.” He stood and helped Robbie up. They stood staring at each other, smiling.

“I mean it, James pet, whatever you feel comfortable with, alright. Or nothing at all except company.”

James sat down on his desk, smiling widely. “Well, according to all the Austin I’ve read, now you’ve laid open all your finances and offered to provide and proposed marriage, you are allowed to kiss me.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Since I first saw you in Heathrow.”

“Oh? Oh! Well, we better make up for lost time then.” He leaned forward to kiss James gently, deepening the kiss, all the while making sure he kept things nice and gentle, remembering the often bruised mouth when Ellis had been around. James brought his hands up to his hair and held his head.

When they eventually broke apart Robbie trace a finger down James’ cheek bone and brushed away a tear with his thumb. “Hey you. Alright?”

“Fine. Better than fine. Happy. Thank you.”

Robbie smiled back, vowing to keep making James happy for as long as he lived.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, as I said, we may have borrowed a few victims, so copyright belongs to and apologies and grateful thanks go to Enid Blyton, Cathy Cassidy, Karen McCombie, Hilary McKay, Jacqueline Wilson and the estates of C.S. Lewis and Lewis Carroll (well, this is Oxford, and Lewis!).
> 
> The Casson family are in the brilliant series of books: Saffy’s Angel, Indigo’s Star, Permanent Rose, Caddy Ever After and Forever Rose, along with the prequel Caddy’s World. They will touch your heart, make you laugh out loud and cry real tears, and make you feel warm and you certainly do not need to be a child to enjoy them.
> 
> Rose’s blog can be found here http://www.hilarymckay.co.uk/rose.php


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